The Sherlock Holmes Case
by folklorequine
Summary: Previously published last February. Richard Brook is being a real pest - the question is, is he real, or was Sherlock Holmes the fake? The Moriarty clan meet their nemesis one more time amid London's high class world of plastic surgery and crime.


219

**The Return of Scarlet Ribbon – **

_**The Sherlock Holmes Case**_

_**Prologue**_

"To a new life, with less stress, right?"

"We-ell, I'll certainly be keeping a lower profile. Can't have trouble with the law now, not after they've been so contrite!"

Irene grinned, "You're lucky really, that police driver should have been sacked!"

"But he did save my life, poor boy, anyway, I've an appointment for the op in two weeks' time with the delightful Dr Morton," Scarlet replied and sipped her champagne thoughtfully.

"Mm, I saw him as you came out, quite a sweetie, eh?"

"Yes, a dishy old silver fox, and no ring or photos, so single or divorced!" Scarlet trilled, leaning forward, "And definitely doesn't bat for the other side!"

"Ooh! What? Wandering hands?" asked Irene as she too leaned across her kitchen table in a conspiratorial manner.

"Oh no, he's far too sweet for that. But I saw it, in his eyes, as he examined my neck, they were growing wider and his hands were trembling. Oh those eyes, lovely and blue! _And_, he smirked! I made a flirty comment and he beamed at me like he was a naughty schoolboy who'd seen a girl's knickers! I think I could have fun with Dr Morton if I wanted!"

Irene patted her friend's arm, "Scarlet, you're priceless! You get rear-ended by a police car, nearly bleed to death, and here, you're back, looking like an A-lister and getting the glad eye from your plastic surgeon! Well done, my dear, very well done!"

"Oh why not? Life would be boring if I suddenly decided to behave. Dr Morton's probably happily married. He's certainly minted. Fabulous private clinic which looks more like a Swiss spa, a car park full of Jags, Mercs and muscle cars, oh yes, Irene, sweetheart, I wouldn't be surprised if you and he had some clients in common!" The women laughed uproariously, and downed more champagne.

"Good girl! At least I can tell you _he's_ never been here before!" Irene added.

"Glad to know that. I might not be strictly plain vanilla myself, but I do love an old-fashioned man now and again," Scarlet observed.

**Chapter 1**

"Dr Morton, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Scarlet asked, opening the main door to her Holland Park residence.

"I just had a few questions, I hoped you'd be able to answer them before the procedure, would you mind?" Dr Michael Morton stood on her doorstep, dressed in a steel grey cashmere overcoat, black suit, and sporting a retro patterned shirt in magenta and white candy stripes. His manner was disarmingly pleasant; his eyes sparkled with boyish mischief.

Scarlet gave him a mock frown, "Hmm, how do I know you're not a closet serial killer looking for his next victim?"

Dr Morton laughed. She could hear the tell-tale nervous tone of a man who does not know what he is about to do. _Silly fool, what does he really want? Might as well find out_. "Come in, Doctor, the longer you stand there, the more draught you're letting in, we might be in London, but it's still January!"

Five minutes later they were in the rear reception room which had a view out onto a pristine lawn surrounded by mature fir trees. Scarlet had sunk confidently into her favourite armchair, positioned just by the French doors and diagonally opposite the large plasma screen television fixed above the fireplace. Dr Morton, minus jacket and coat, was standing around nervously, a glass of orange juice in his hand which Scarlet had poured for him.

"I wanted to check… after your accident, which drugs did they give you in hospital? I mean, just to make sure… that you don't have any allergies, you know?" he said, avoiding her gaze.

"I guess I had morphine, but nothing else, it was a flesh wound really, once they'd made sure they'd plugged up the vein, they couldn't really give me much more than paracetamol. But surely, the operation is nothing more than a skin graft? It's not like those plastic princesses that choose to have their faces pumped full of botulin!" Scarlet giggled.

"We-ell, no, not that you'd ever… I mean, you have perfect natural beauty, you're a very lucky lady…" he stopped, bit his lip and finally levelled his gaze with hers. "Look, there's something I must show you, it's important that you understand… here, it's in my bag." He placed the glass on the sideboard and ducked down by her chair where he'd deposited his bag on the floor, a traditional leather doctor's receptacle.

Scarlet felt a strange sensation creep down her spine. _This is it, whatever he's plotting, he's going to do it now._ She sat forward on the edge of the chair. Suddenly, everything happened at once. Dr Morton jumped to his feet wielding a full syringe and dived at her. Scarlet stuck her knee up and stopped him in mid-leap, at the same time, grabbing his right wrist and twisting it back sharply. He howled as there was a distinct cracking noise, and he dropped the syringe on the carpet. Kicking out with her other foot, she sent him sprawling onto her sheepskin rug in front of the fire, narrowly missing the sharp edge of the glass coffee table. Snatching up the syringe, Scarlet threw her full weight on top of him and held the needle directly over his external jugular vein. The little bit of medical knowledge she'd acquired while hospital now made it easy for her to judge that she was in control of the present situation.

"Now," she began, her tone decidedly icy, "my dear doctor, I think you ought to tell me exactly who you are and what you want before I squeeze this plunger and fill you full of whatever nasty drug is in here!"

"I am who I say!" he gasped, breathlessly, "I am Dr Michael Morton, plastic surgeon, that's the truth! And please, don't touch the plunger, there's a high dose of Ketamine in that syringe, and dangerous as it is anyway, I think you might kill me, as I'm an asthmatic and it would probably knock out my lung function very quickly," he explained, his chest rising and falling rapidly in tune with his rasping breath.

"You still haven't told me what you want. I take it you know me… and I don't mean as Jenny Summers, your patient, and if so, what on earth made you think you could get the better of me?" Scarlet hissed, her face close to his, her left hand clutching his chin.

"I want… I want _you_! I want a slice of your pie, you're Scarlet Ribbon, and your friend who picked you up in the black Jaguar XK was the infamous brothel madam, Irene Adler! When I saw you together I guessed you were a bit more than a stable owner from Cornwall! So, I did a little research into your 'accident', the reason the police car crashed into your Porsche was that they were in pursuit of you for suspected theft! The police driver was a young man, newly through his competency test, he got over-excited and smashed into your sports car. Your windscreen smashed because you hit the dry stane dyke by the roadside; a fragment of glass lodged in your neck, and you would have bled to death had that same petrolhead bobby not known enough basic first aid to staunch the bleed! So when I discovered that my latest patient is really Scarlet Ribbon, elusive professional thief and con-artist, darling of the online criminal community, I thought, how interesting, and how fortuitous!"

"Michael Morton, what the hell are you on about?" Scarlet snapped, so close he could feel her breath on his face.

"Believe it or not, Miss Moneybags, we're in a recession right now, and have been for the last four years. Many of my clients cannot afford the standard prices I charge, so I've been forced to cut back, now I can't pay my staff, or my utility bills. Then just last week, a young man turned up at the clinic, asked to see me, and dropped a padded envelope full of fifty pound notes on my desk. He was probably about twenty, skinny, dark skinned, heavy black brows and hair. There were the tell-tale signs of cocaine abuse around his nostrils. He said, "Man, I wanna be a white kid, I gotta get out of London, can you fix me, doc?" It turns out this little oik was a petty criminal, a car thief, he'd stolen a vehicle belonging to a very high-powered lawyer in the city and now he was terrified he would be caught and put away. I saw the money, I saw his modified Range Rover outside in the car park, and I was sorely tempted. I said no, then, but my senior nurse, when I told her, she said I was stupid to have turned the boy down. Then you turned up today and left with Miss Adler. I thought I might be able to have your help on my terms. Look, I'm not a crook, at least, I wasn't until I tried that stupid stunt just now, I'm just a desperate man who is about to lose his business, the one trade he loves, and the world's best thief walks into his life, what would you do?" he sighed, and lay back, as Scarlet let go his chin, but kept the needle hovering over him.

For once in her life she was speechless. Yes there were honourable criminals in her game, but never had an ordinary man come looking for her and challenged her so intensely. She could kill him right now. Irene would be happy to help her dispose of this foolish doctor, and concoct a story for the police, but something stopped her. _Practicalities, darling, you need him to get rid of your scar, and he will have family, people will miss him and ask questions. _

"You're a very silly man, Dr Morton, I really don't think you know me very well. So, do I take it you wish to use my talents to generate some much needed income for you? You have no leverage, nothing, yet you naively think you can come into my house, subdue me and demand your own terms? Don't you know that they call me every man's nightmare? A woman in charge!" Scarlet began to laugh at the ridiculousness of the scene. She was wearing a floaty, floral house coat over a white sleeveless t-shirt and pale green Chinos; on her feet were a pair of £500 gold Jimmy Choo sandals which she had bought from the designer's store in Westfield Mall with Irene two days previously, and here she was, lying on top of a plastic surgeon, wielding the very syringe he'd tried to attack her with, moments before. "Ha, does your wife know you're here?"

"I'm single!" he shot back.

"Lucky for you then. No girlfriends, boyfriends?"

Dr Morton hissed derisively and shook his head, "And I'm straight."

"Oh dear, oh dear, what are we going to do with you? I think I've had enough gymnastics for the day, considering I've only been out of hospital for a week. I think you need to calm down," she cooed in her characteristic seductive tone. Scarlet dug the needle into the prominent vein and pushed the plunger down a fraction.

A look of horror crossed the doctor's face, and she pushed a fraction more before pulling the needle out and pressing her finger against the blood spot which appeared. She bent the needle off the syringe against the carpet and threw it left-handed straight into the wicker waste bin by the fire. "I don't think you're going to die, sweetheart, just slip into a lovely sleep for a few hours till I decide what to do with you. I'll be checking your diary, and if you're supposed to be anywhere else, I'll be calling them to say you're delayed with your financial adviser!"

Dr Morton stared at her from his position on the rug. He could feel the drug sweep into his veins. He estimated she'd probably given him about 2 or 3mg which meant he certainly would be unconscious very soon, but not enough to trigger an asthma attack. _Damn, she's clever_, he thought.

"Wh-what are you going to do?" he asked, sleepily.

"Oh, probably strip you, take a few piccies of you in your birthday suit and keep them for blackmail purposes. Then we would need a proper business meeting. I have a few tame accountants at my disposal via Irene's client list. Now, it wouldn't go down well with the BMA if images of you at Miss Adler's residence were to be circulated. This room is very like one in her house, a bit of Photoshopping and it could just be Irene's pleasure palace! So, keep that in mind as you drift off," Scarlet leaned over him again, the scent of her perfume wafting into his mind.

"And Dr Morton, I do think you're quite cute really, if you're a really good boy, we might have some fun too," she whispered, sensing that he was so drowsy he would soon be incapacitated. "You see, I've always been in charge. It comes of my father having died the very year I was born. He was a sergeant in the British Army. Shot by some Papist scumbag in Belfast. My brother joined up as soon as he could, so it was just me, my sister and my mother. All women together, the power of three. _Nobody crosses me, especially not a man._ You're an innocent fool, if I'd thought for one minute you were like me, I'd have stuck the needle straight into your heart and rammed that plunger down as far as it would go. You're lucky that I'm a sucker for an innocent, but you've let money be your master, which has led you here. You're very … very lucky…" she trailed off, watching his eyelids flicker as the drug took hold.

"Oh yes, you're lucky," she whispered again, bending the ultimate degree and kissing his lips. He could feel her touch, but no longer respond. The last words in his mind before the black shroud of unconsciousness fell were… _dark angel._

"Irene, you have to see what's just come up on your phone!" Kate, Irene's assistant trilled as she scuttled into the vast drawing room in Irene's Belgravia residence. She was lying on the floor in a fluffy white dressing gown in front of a log fire, before her were several daily newspapers which she had been consulting as Kate entered.

"Ooh, scandal? Let me see," Irene exclaimed, and pulled herself up onto her knees. Looking at the smartphone's screen she guffawed at the image. "Oh dear, poor Dr Morton, he's in Scarlet's bad books!"

"_The_ Dr Morton? What, the Kensington plastic surgeon?" Kate asked.

"Yes, dear, it seems he's being a very naughty boy," Irene laughed. The image showed the doctor's naked body stretched out on what Irene presumed was one of Scarlet's spare beds; his eyes were closed, and his hands were secured to the wrought iron bedframe by a pair of handcuffs. Irene recognised them as the ones she'd given her friend as a sort of naughty birthday present a few years back. "Mm, what do you think, Kate? Rather nice set of credentials, eh?" she added.

Kate looked at the picture again, "Wouldn't mind playing doctors and nurses with him! But he's a nice guy I thought, there was an article in the _Daily Express_ a few weeks ago about him. Treated an Indian girl who'd had acid thrown over her by her brother, you know the type, poor kid wants to have a white boyfriend, and her family basically issue a fatois! Her face was half gone, but Dr Morton fixed it and didn't ask any payment. Next day his Aston Martin had the tyres slashed, but the local constabulary managed to catch the brother in the act and had him arrested for the assault on his sister too," she explained.

"Well done the Met, I wonder if Detective Inspector Lestrade was involved in that one? Anyway, I can't wait to hear what Scarlet is planning, I'll just give her a ring, when's my next client?" Irene asked.

"Not till 3pm, the government minister, the one who likes rubber," Kate grinned.

"Fine, just check that the CCTV is working, we can't afford any threats ourselves," Irene told her.

Scarlet Ribbon was standing on her doorstep, pointing the automatic key at the navy blue Aston Martin Vanquish which was parked across the road. To her satisfaction, the lights flicked on and off, _so, there's the good doctor's car_. She glanced quickly up and down and then ran across to the car. Once inside, she was just about to open the glove box when her mobile rang. She fished it out of her pocket and saw Irene's number displayed on screen. Smirking, she answered, "Hello, sweetheart, I take it you've seen the photo?"

"Yes I have, you naughty little witch! What happened?" Irene sounded intrigued.

"Oh well, what a story!" Scarlet began and quickly outlined the events of the last hour. "I am still not sure if he's telling the truth, so I'm in his car to do some nosing. Do you think you could find out whether or not he is an innocent, rather than a potential blackmailer playing stupid?"

"Of course, Kate and I have a large database of the doings of the rich, famous, perverted and greedy. Although, looking at the image and hearing what you've said, I don't know anyone in this game who would allow that to happen to himself knowingly. Hmm, apart from one… and that was a means to an end. How long has he been out?" Irene replied.

"About half an hour, but I've had a look online, Ketamine's anaesthetic effects wear off quickly, so I'm just going to check as soon as I go back in. It's a party drug, I hadn't realised that, not just for sedating horses and zoo cats! But then, he's a doctor, he'll have access to such things legally," Scarlet told her.

"Oh yes, works like LSD in small doses, your doctor might be visited by the pink elephants on parade very soon. So what do you plan to do if he _is_ exactly who he says he is? Are you going to help him?"

"I'm not a debt counsellor, if his business is going under that's not my problem, _but_ having access to a tame plastic surgeon could be very, very useful indeed. I think it will be more a case of quid pro quo. I'm just curious as to why… wait a minute, I've found some paperwork in the car," Scarlet had opened the glove box and pulled out a sheaf of papers, including glaring red utility bills, invoices from medical instrument suppliers, all months out of date, and an appointment card for the haematology unit at the Royal London Hospital. "Oh dear, someone _is_ in trouble, final demands, and health issues. I suppose a cancer scare would make some people do insane things. Anyway, don't worry, I think we need to find out if anyone _else_ is behind the good doctor's temporary lunacy."

"Ah ha, I wonder, very well, I'll let you get back to him, you lucky bunny!" Irene said brightly.

Scarlet looked closely at the paperwork. The Carisbrooke Clinic was not in a good way, that much was obvious. She reached her hand back into the glove box and felt the edge of an envelope. Pulling it out, she saw the address was handwritten to Dr Morton. Inside was a letter, in a strong italic hand. The author was a Richard Brook, who gave his profession as an investigative journalist. He was clearly aware of the car thief's visit, and was challenging the doctor as to the nature of his clients. The tone of the letter was professional but had an underlying current of venom, sounding less like a journalist and more like a criminal. '_I'm sure the public would be very concerned to learn that the kindly doctor who saved the face of the Indian teenager after an assault by her brother, actually helps criminals escape the penalty of the law, pocketing the proceeds from their activities. You could be leaving yourself open to all sorts of trouble,' _Uh huh, whoever Richard Brook is, he has a fine line in intimidation! Been watching _the Krays_ too many times, Mr Brook, have we? We'll see about that."

Michael Morton was awake. He felt like his body did not belong to him. Staring at the ceiling rose above him it appeared as if there were little flies crawling out of the cracks in the plaster. First two, then three, they multiplied with frightening regularity and began to spread over the ceiling and march down the walls. He gasped in horror and tried to move. It was then he discovered his wrists were secured above him with handcuffs. Looking up again, he saw the ceiling was completely clear. _Help, it's the Ketamine, I'm hallucinating_. He felt his breath rasping in his lungs, as if it was a struggle to get them moving. _No, no, I can't have an asthma attack now, no, please don't_.

He heard footsteps and remembered where he was. Scarlet Ribbon appeared in the doorway. "Ah, back with us, I see, Doctor, now, you and I have some talking to do," she began and stalked across to the bed. Sitting by him, she could then see his agitated expression.

"Let me go, please, I'm scared… my breathing isn't good, I really need my inhaler, look, I am no threat to you, just let me go and forget I was ever here," Michael gasped.

The fearful expression in his eyes was enough to convince her he was being truthful. She ran into the back room and quickly found a Ventolin inhaler in the top of his bag. Soon, she had unlocked the cuffs, flicked the bedcover over him to cover his modesty, and given him the inhaler. Michael gratefully sucked hard on the inhaler, coughing and spluttering in between breaths.

Scarlet picked up his spectacles from the bedside table and handed them to him. He put them on his face and pulled the eiderdown up to his chest. "Who's Richard Brook?" she asked, gazing intently at him.

"A troublemaker. Somehow he found out about the lad with the wad of cash. I just thought if I could get you on side, I could defeat him… I'm not like them, really, not like you, I mean, I _am not a criminal_!" Michael groaned.

"I don't know of him, but Irene is about to find out. You silly, silly man, I can see now you were practically cornered. I don't do the guardian angel thing, I'm in it for myself, you know that, but I remember reading about the Indian girl now. I hate violence against women, I told you, no man crosses me, or my sisters, so I applaud you for that. You can't be rotten if you would do that. Unfortunately this is a wicked world, and you're in it now, like it or not. However, if you do as I say, I will ensure this Brook doesn't ruin your reputation, and your business will improve. Your clothes are here, get dressed and come through to the lounge."

He stared at her, his breathing was rapid and shallow. She stretched her hand out to his cheek and stroked gently, "My dear doctor, I've decided I like you. Do remember what you said before you fell asleep?" Michael shook his head. "You said 'dark angel'. Now, that might be an appropriate soubriquet for me, as I wouldn't call myself an angel in the traditional sense, but Irene's great aunt, whom I know and respect, always said that sin should be tempered with the occasional saintly deed. You helped a girl who had experienced entirely unmerited cruelty from a brainwashed man, that deserves one good deed in return. Take it easy, Dr Morton, I'm not about to bite, I've had my fun."

Michael shivered at her touch, but he believed that there was truth behind her curious violet eyes. "I've got to get back to the clinic," he said.

By the time Michael was able to get his clothes on and walk unsteadily through to the back lounge, Scarlet had texted Irene with the name of the supposed journalist. She texted back immediately with a link to a web site. "I think I know your Mr Brook after all," Scarlet said, as Michael eased himself down into the sofa and took another dose of Ventolin.

"Really?"

"Yes, he's not who he says he is. He's actually an extremely psychotic Irishman who has an ego the size of a house and enjoys playing cat and mouse games with anyone he thinks he can bully. Irene has had dealings with him in the past. Trouble is, he's supposed to be dead," she explained.

"Eh? Brook or his alter ego?"

"Both."

Michael shook his head, "This is more than I can bear, what have I done?"

"Oh now, stop worrying. We need to ensure that little toerag who Brook probably sent to you deliberately is dealt with, and considering the _Sun_ ran his obituary while I was in hospital and missed all the fun, I don't think Mr Brook will take the risk of coming out of hiding, if one of Irene's tame hacks prints a story to refute any connection with your clinic," Scarlet assured.

"But who is he?"

"James Moriarty, or Jim as he likes to be known. He acts like he's a Bond villain, a regular megalomaniac, but he does have fingers in a lot of pies. Someone recently tried to stop him, and we believed that he had met his match. Jim Moriarty reportedly blew his brains out on the roof of St Bart's Hospital on the same day Richard Brook supposedly died. But Irene and I know him better than that. If there is a way to fake even that, he will have found it, or else his minions will be carrying on the business. The spider is dead, the spiderlets have no power to protect them any more if that is the case. A man called Sherlock Holmes committed suicide that day too. He was getting a name for himself as a detective, damn clever lad, almost supernaturally clever, but Brook tried to prove he was a fake. Moriarty and Brook are one. The story on the grapevine is that Holmes and Moriarty entered a pact – a life for a life, if Moriarty shot himself, Holmes would take a flyer off the roof. Now, this Holmes character has a brother, high up in the government, so I very much doubt he would have let his sibling take his own life just to bring down a nasty piece of work like Moriarty. But then, no one else has been able to prove otherwise. If neither are dead then we're back to square one," Scarlet told him.

"It sounds like a novel," Michael observed. "The type where you can choose your own ending. So if there's no Brook, then I'm partly in the clear?"

"I wouldn't take anything for granted. I also have no idea why Moriarty would take a spite against you. Anyway, you look like hell, you should go home to bed!" Scarlet exclaimed, getting to her feet. "Oh, and should you feel the need to talk to too many people, just remember, both Irene and I have a copy of this!" She showed him the phone.

"Oh no!"

"Promised you, didn't I?"

Michael got to his feet and somehow struggled into his jacket and coat. Scarlet could see he was in a bad way. She took his arm and helped him down the steps to the Aston Martin. Just before he closed the door, Scarlet said, "A car like this on finance? You silly man!"

**Chapter 2**

"Dr Morton, what's wrong? You don't look well, I think you should have a comfy seat in your office and I'll get you a cup of tea," it was the voice of his junior nurse, Chantal, cheery and bright as ever.

"Em, I might just do that, Chantal, think I have an asthma attack coming on," he muttered, and allowed her to take his arm and lead him to his office which was at the far end of the main corridor which held the suite of workrooms for the clinic.

Chantal was like a little sparrow, her voice trilled with good humour and she never held a grudge. He liked her for that alone, she was so adept at keeping the peace with some of the prima donna clients who came into the clinic, that he doubted he could do without her. Chantal's superior, Alanna, the senior nurse thought otherwise.

"Ah, thank you," he said, as Chantal handed him tea in his favourite mug.

"Is it the cold weather, do you think? My gran always thought icy draughts brought on her asthma, did you have to park far away from your morning appointment? I wondered if you'd gone straight to lunch, but then the receptionist got a message that you were in a meeting with your financial adviser and were delayed," she said, hardly stopping for breath.

"Um, yes, and no, I don't know, I'm just stressed, perhaps I should have taken up Laurence's suggestion of a squash game yesterday evening. Did he cover for me?" Michael asked, referring to his partner, Laurence Mellifer.

"Oh yes, Laurence is ever the sweetie, he saw your eleven o'clock appointment, teenager who wants breast augmentation. Oh dear, she doesn't need it, she's got loads of growing to do yet, anyway, he told her to think very seriously about it before she made up her mind. But then, her Dad just adores her, he'd give her anything," Chantal explained.

"Mm, good, we did discuss her earlier. But much as I hate to be mercenary, we need the cash. _Look_, you know things aren't going well here. If we don't get some serious investment soon, the electric will be cut off next week. I know you don't mind waiting for your wages, but the others, well…" he trailed off. The anxiety grew again, causing the burning, stabbing pain that was the precursor to a full blown asthma attack. "Think I need some steroids, like, right now," he gasped. "Go to the pharmacy cabinet and get me a packet of Prednisolone."

Chantal ran out of the door. Michael tried to breathe deeply, but every breath was a shallow rasp. He tried the inhaler again, but the wheeze got worse. Chantal was back immediately and seeing Michael was in no fit state for anything, she opened the packet and pushed eight tablets out of the blister pack. "All at once, I've helped my gran often enough, come on, Dr Morton," she assured, as he took the tablets in his palm, tipped them all into his mouth and gulped down the tea. He realised that she'd not called him by his first name, Chantal only called him by his professional title on two occasions, in front of colleagues and patients, and when she was worried about him.

The drug hopefully would not react with the Ketamine, he thought, as he felt the burning sensation subside. He drank the cup dry. "Just like magic, eh? Isn't it wonderful what modern medicine can do!" Chantal enthused.

"Yep, and I'm not having a good day, not at all. I'm afraid you'll have to cancel any procedures I have today or get Laurence to do them, I'm not fit. Sorry, Chantal, I don't like to have to burden you with my problems," Michael told her.

"Oh no worries, it's perfectly ok, you don't need to bother, I'm happy to help. I went into nursing to help people, and that includes the doctors! Just go home, I'll sort it out with the others," she replied, patting his shoulder.

Michael looked at her. He'd only noticed vaguely before that she was a very pretty young woman with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a beaming smile on her fresh face. Quite different to the worldly-wise Scarlet Ribbon. There was not an evil bone in Chantal's body, and she would be horrified to think anyone could be cruel and threatening. _Idiot, why didn't you pay attention to her before? Because I'm a coward, how is a nurse in her twenties going to fancy an old man in his fifties?_

"Take care, Michael, we'll get through this, all of us. You just need to be honest about how bad things are," Chantal smiled.

"Thanks, Chantal, you're an angel," Michael said, _yes, the sort of angel I would rather be involved with than Scarlet Ribbon_!

Scarlet had done some research of her own; she had been able to find the article about the Indian girl again, and several articles attributed to the late Richard Brook. It appeared that he was not a journalist at all, but an actor. Kitty Riley was the author of these articles, not him. She was the journalist for the _Sun_ who had also written the articles denouncing Sherlock Holmes as a fraud. _Ha, I like that, so, Richard Brook was supposedly an out of work actor employed by Holmes to play the part of arch-villain, James Moriarty_. "Dearie me, Miss Riley, if you're that daft, I think I need to talk to you. Pity I missed all this. All the time Moriarty's alter ego is indulging in blackmail as well as feeding crazy stories to hacks in order to destroy his enemies. In a social-media world he's actually found the perfect way to do it. But we can't have this, we need to know if our Irish spider really is dead. Now, who do I know at St. Bart's Hospital?"

After a few phone calls, Scarlet located the woman she needed to talk to, "Jean, it's Jenny here, Rafe's friend, I need a favour, do you still have a relative working at St. Bart's?"

"Aye, I do, what do you need?" Jean East, Glaswegian ex-nurse answered.

"Well, I need to know if a certain person who died on the roof of the hospital really _did_ die and hasn't actually affected a miraculous resurrection. There's a police detective, Gregory Lestrade, he was there when it happened," Scarlet explained.

"Ah, I know who you mean, yep, I can find out. I'll get onto my cousin and let you know later. Funny case that, as in peculiar, nobody seems to know exactly what happened up there, supposed to be a stand-off with the police, yet all the officers were on the ground. As far as I heard, there were two bodies in the mortuary that night, but they were never formally identified by relatives or the like, somebody went to great lengths to keep regular staff out of the way," Jean told her. "By the way, you might want to give Rafe a call, he's not doing so well just now."

"Oh?" Scarlet Ribbon had known Rafe Charteris for a very long time, partly due to Irene's great aunt's intervention in Rafe's life when his father died. "I'll do that, is he ill, or just got money worries?"

"It's complicated, he wouldn't really explain. He went off to Scotland to visit friends there, but he's back in his flat now," Jean replied.

_Friends in Scotland? Ah ha, I think I know who they might be._ "Alright, thank you, Jean, hear from you soon," Scarlet said.

Scarlet Ribbon was soon sitting on the Tube having walked to Shepherd's Bush Station from her house on Holland Park Gardens. _Change at Oxford Circus for Pimlico_, she mused. _Long, long time since I've been on this train._ A vague memory of going on the Tube to Olympia for the _Horse of the Year_ _Show_ flashed in her mind; probably eighteen years ago, with her mother and her younger sister, Lynette. _Nobody looks for a career criminal on the Tube_, she grinned to herself. The electric whirr of the train and the occasional squeal of brakes as it took a curve brought it all back. She saw her reflection in the glass, her long waves of red hair down over her shoulders, covering the stitching scar which ran from under her left ear to her collarbone. Apart from that she wasn't so different to that horse-mad teenager who had bounced along the platform all those years back. She grinned at herself. _No, I'm not going to behave, not a bit of it._

Reaching Rafe's flat in Warwick Square, Pimlico, she spotted his familiar antique Morgan sportscar parked by the pavement. Pressing the buzzer, she heard a gloomy-sounding voice, _Who is it?_

"I've been hearing you've got some troubles, do you want to tell your auntie Scarlet all about it?" she said soothingly.

"Oh, it's you! Yes, come up," Rafe replied.

At the top of the first floor, Scarlet saw him opening his door. She strode quickly towards him and wrapped her arms around him. "Now, now, what's all this? Jean East says you aren't doing so well, is it anything I can help with? You are an old friend after all."

"Come in, it's a long story," Rafe told her. She could see his normally pale complexion was even more sallow that usual and that his usually bright amber eyes were dull and tired.

Rafe's flat was a mishmash of Victorian and Georgian furnishings. His main room was dominated by two enormous bookcases, and the tall velvet curtains were pulled across the window. He directed her to the cream and gold striped Georgian sofa, and reached behind him to a mahogany sideboard where a half-empty bottle of _Famous Grouse_ whisky sat beside two crystal tumblers. Scarlet watched as he poured a generous measure for himself, then turned to her, "Like some?"

"No, not this time, I'm only just out of hospital and I'll have another operation soon, so I'm laying off the drink for a bit. Did you hear about my disaster?" she asked.

"No, I was in Ross-shire with your sister and her husband. Sorry, did you have an accident?" Rafe replied.

"You were at Lynette's and you didn't know? I called her a few times and spoke to her, she never mentioned that you were there," Scarlet said incredulously.

"I was in a bad way. Couldn't face anyone. Lynette was as good to keep my presence there a secret. And if she had told me about you, I probably don't remember, I drank a lot and got so desperate I even got my hands on some marijuana at some point," he said, with a regretful smile and sank down into the soft armchair across from her.

"Dearie me, now that is unlike you, Rafe, despite everything you've been through, you're usually very positive and find ways round it. Don't worry about me, I'm fine now, but a very silly police constable crashed into the back of my Porsche and nearly killed me. I might have been safer in your car! Now, no more obfuscating, what happened to you?" Scarlet demanded.

Rafe sighed and threw back his head. "Ha! I finally became unstuck. After all these years, I thought I understood everything about women and how to charm them into doing anything, but I met my match, oh did I ever… you would think I'd have learned from those early days when Irene's lovely great aunt got me out of a hole at Cambridge. Italians. I should have known, I should have listened to my own gut feeling, but I didn't. I'm a married man, Scarlet, can you credit that?"

Scarlet wanted to laugh, but she could see he was serious. "How the hell? What on earth possessed you?"

"A lady called Nancy Donafiro. I was over in Florence, not particularly looking for a con, but I thought, ha ha, a middle-aged lady who may just like a little male attention. I tried to con her, but she conned me. I found myself in a Registry Office agreeing to be her husband, because she knew a lot more than I realised. A long time ago it turned out I'd ripped off her mother! When she recognised me, she decided she would get her own back. Now I'm tied to her and I can't escape. If I misbehave she'll expose me. Fortunately she's left me alone for a bit, thinks this place is far too untidy, so she lives at her place over the road in Vincent Square Mansions. She has a network of friendly ex-pat Italians who keep an eye on me all the time. I ran off to Lynette and Andrew's place because I knew they couldn't and daren't follow there, but I had to come back because I was scared what she might do when I was out of London. I actually asked Andrew, you know… but he said no. I don't blame him, he's living a peaceful life and doesn't want any more hassle. I suppose you are the only other person who might help," Rafe explained in a dull tone.

Scarlet stared at him, "Oh my poor dear, what is it about today? You're my second man in a mess today, but at least … anyway, forget that, yes, we'll find a way." She realised there was something solid beneath the cushion, and pulled out a book. "E.W. Hornung, _The Adventures of Raffles_, ah yes, the gentleman thief," she said admiringly. There was a leather bookmark in between the pages, and Scarlet looked at the story which had been marked. "Ah, now, did you see this?"

Rafe nodded, "It's the only thing I can think of."

Scarlet did laugh then, "Oh Rafe, if you only knew, there seems to be an excess of people faking their deaths right now. Jean was trying to help me find out about one of them, a man who is a threat to us all. But do you think it's possible?"

"Yes. It's not that far off the con I pulled off with your brother-in-law. This time it needs a tame doctor who would be willing to fake a terminal condition and bring it right to the point of death. No-one else can know, I'd have to trick my family too, well, apart from one of them, who will have to help me with the legal issues. I didn't mention it to Jean. This would take a whole cocktail of drugs to achieve, and it would have to be a doctor who was straight down the line, I mean, I couldn't trust a criminal. Raffles' doctor sedated him to look like he had died, but then doctors were gods, no-one would argue with them, I'd need a medical expert who could actually stop my heart if need be, and revive me. I wouldn't even ask it of Abishai Cohen, he doesn't have the up to date skills, do you know of anyone?"

Scarlet looked up at the ceiling and down again. "Rafe, I think this is your lucky day. The man who ruffled my feathers this morning is a doctor. A plastic surgeon, mind you, but surely has a knowledge of drugs. He's in desperate financial straits and practically risked his health and sanity to beg me to help. I'm convinced now that he is entirely innocent, but driven by a potential and actually groundless blackmail threat from the very ghost I'm trying to track down. Hmm, it would be pleasant symmetry indeed if we could cause this odious woman to come to the attention of my ghostly villain," she smiled, and got to her feet. "Rafe, despite how your methods have rankled with me in the past, I would not see you ruined. We will deal with this, I promise you."

"Really? It sounds too good to be true!" he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Scarlet took the glass of whisky out of his hand. "If we're able to do this, you better go teetotal, I really, really wouldn't want to be accidentally responsible for your death."

"Yes, of course, but I'll take that risk," Rafe said.

"Now, I didn't know you had any other relatives in the legal profession, I know your sister works for the same firm my brother-in-law deals with, but who is it?" Scarlet asked.

"A giant among men. Literally! He's six foot four. He trained as a lawyer, but he's very choosy whom he represents. He's my uncle's only son, and I was always a bit scared of him. He only turned up recently to help us protect the family estate from developers, and currently he is attached to my sister's firm, her boss, Dr Forsyth was quite impressed by him. I had already considered asking for his help, but I'm certain the marriage was legal. However, despite the fact that Nancy thinks she's going to get everything, my cousin Charles-Henry Ravenhurst would ensure she was not entitled to a penny. Now, I admit I'm a big coward most of the time, but Charles would put the fear of God into the most hardened villain. Honestly, wait till you meet him, there's something leonine and brooding about him that you really wouldn't want to disturb. When I was young, he could shoot me a look and that was enough to send me running off to my mother!" Rafe enthused.

"Hmm, I'll have to look him up then, sounds like an extremely useful ally. Not one to be crossed, though?" Scarlet suggested. Rafe shook his head vigorously. "Good, now why don't we make you some strong espresso and get this room aired, it already smells like a Victorian funeral parlour!" she commented, and pulled the curtains back letting the sharp white winter sunlight dazzle them both.

Rafe groaned and headed for the kitchen. "I hate sunlight, it reminds me what a lazy slob I am!"

Scarlet's mobile phone rang; it was Jean. "Any news?"

"Oh aye, Allan's got wind of a little scandal. I'd rather tell ye in person, where are ye just now?" Jean's voice sounded excited.

"At Rafe's place, Warwick Square. Yes, do come immediately!" Scarlet insisted.

Wherever Jean had been herself, the door buzzer rang a few minutes later. The Glaswegian came into the living room, gave Rafe a peck on the cheek and sat on the striped sofa.

"Well, well, have I got a story for you!" she began.

"What do you mean there are two bodies missing? That can't be right! There were four _physically_ in those freezers last night. Who was last in?" Simon Edwards was the mortuary supervisor at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and he was in a foul mood.

"I don't know, boss, there's a page in the log missing, but we can check the computerised log, nobody can come in or out without swiping their ID," Allan Scott, one of the mortuary attendants told him.

"Well, go on, Mr Scott, you do that, hell's bells, I can't have bodies going missing, what'll the police, not to mention the relatives say?" he boomed, opening and closing every one of the chilled cabinets which held the corpses to check their contents. Allan could hear him muttering as he went back out into the office. He logged into the computer terminal on the desk and started up the program which logged foot traffic in and out of the mortuary.

The last exit had been the cleaning supervisor at 12am, then there was a gap until Simon's entry at 8am that morning. He looked closer at the screen. There was something strange about the last few entries. _Cleaning supervisor, entry, 11.02pm; Cleaning supervisor, entry, 11.05pm. _"That can't be right, you can't come in twice on the same card, you'd have to exit first! Boss, this is mental, somebody's been messing with the computer!" he called.

"You're telling me, I have a log sheet here from 4pm which states there were two 'John Does', vagrants picked up in Postman's Park, just across the road from the hospital, died of exposure. Now I _distinctly_ remember two bodies, those nutters who were having a barney on the roof. One shot himself, the other jumped, and they were brought in about 5pm, Molly Hooper was the duty pathologist! Where is she? She should have filed all the paperwork. Any idea of their names, Mr Scott?" Simon asked.

"Um, no, I wasn't on duty then. I think you should definitely speak to Molly, she'll be in any minute now," Allan replied.

Just as Simon was about to open his mouth, Molly arrived. The dark-haired pathologist smiled and said good morning. "Er, Miss Hooper, we've got a discrepancy here, and there's something funny about the computer log, do you remember the names of the corpses brought in about 5 o'clock yesterday, you were working on them, weren't you?"

Molly looked awkwardly at Allan, who shrugged. "Oh dear, I should have told you, it's a bit delicate. Um… the security services demanded that they take charge of the bodies. You know, the Spooks? MI5? I couldn't really argue with them. Detective Inspector Lestrade said it was ok, he'd sort out the paperwork. One of their medical men tore the page out of the handwritten log, that was about 5.30. It was really embarrassing, I didn't know where to put myself, but you know what these people are like, you can't tell them about hospital procedure! It's not like we'll get an apology. Lestrade said he would deal with anything that needed to be dealt with," she explained.

"Huh, yeah, I see what you mean. I heard they were all over the local hospital where the guy from the Stockwell Tube shooting was taken. Sorry, Miss Hooper, I just have to check, don't want any hospital managers down here bending my ear!" Simon sighed.

"It's alright, you weren't to know, I was practically sworn to secrecy there and then. But you know who they were, didn't you see the papers?" Molly asked.

"Oh, wait a mo', yeah, boss, it was in the _Sun_, that reporter, Kitty Riley, did a piece called 'Death of Fraudster', she said he'd killed himself because she'd exposed him, was really concerned that she would be blamed for getting blood on her hands. Silly cow, yeah, that's it, and the other guy, nobody's quite sure, but I think that's why the spooks would have been involved, gee, yeah, I just saw that, somebody's paper on the Tube," Allan commented.

"But you still haven't told me their names!" Simon insisted.

"Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, staring directly at him, "And James Moriarty, also known as Richard Brook."

Simon's eyes widened. "Very queer business indeed, but what about the computer?"

"Oh, what, was there a duplicate entry?" Molly asked.

"Uh huh," Allan said, "Looks like the cleaning supervisor came in here twice, but without exiting in the middle!"

"Ah, it sometimes does that, I've told IT about it already, it's what they call a 'ghost entry'. They said it happens if the person coming in stands too long beside the sensor. The cleaners won't realise that when they're wiping down the doorframe," Molly explained.

"Oh, I see, that's ok then. If you could get that detective to send me an email about the corpses, we'll be sorted," Simon commented.

"Of course, as you say, we've got to keep our records correct," Molly beamed at him, and walked into the mortuary.

"Allan said that he phoned IT and they had never heard of 'ghost entries'! It's only when I'd asked him about it, that he began to wonder. So, it's entirely possible that police inspector could have covered up the truth about the bodies, or _whose_ bodies they were. I think it sounds like Molly Hooper is in on it, cos Allan said he'd often seen her working on cases with this Sherlock Holmes, _and_ Lestrade. I've never heard the like!" Jean exclaimed.

Scarlet and Rafe looked at each other; Rafe was clueless, but Scarlet understood the import of it. She texted Irene. _Looks like your Sherlock might not be dead after all, and Moriarty might also be out there. Mycroft spirited the bodies away from St Bart's last night._

"Very, very interesting. So, my friend the doctor will have to tread carefully. But, it looks like we can proceed with a plan to help Rafe. Jean, we can't tell you what we're about to do, but don't be surprised if you hear Rafe's condition has deteriorated, get my drift?"

"Ah, nae bother, I'll be off then, now my laddie, you behave, ok?" Jean said, getting to her feet and blowing Rafe a kiss.

After she had left, Rafe looked at Scarlet, "Sure you can trust this doctor friend of yours?"

"He's not about to cross me, I've got pictures of him naked and handcuffed," Scarlet said blankly. Rafe snorted with laughter.

"You don't change, do you? Well, I'm glad for once. Let me know when things are going to start, and I'll introduce you to my cousin," he said.

"I shall. Now, I have to find out for sure if that nasty little Irishman is still living and breathing or at least under lock and key," Scarlet said as she turned towards the door.

"Moriarty, eh? Sounds like a bounder. There was a boy at school with that surname, I sincerely hope it isn't the same person!" Rafe smiled.

"Glad to see you're happier. No more drink or smokes, right? At least until after this is over," with that, Scarlet left him.

Walking to Belgravia, Scarlet began to formulate a plan. Dr Morton would have to come up with a terminal condition that could be faked with drugs, and he'd have to use his clinic as cover, but then, Rafe had many friends in the con game who could mock up an empty building to look like a private hospital. They could leave nothing to chance. She would have to find out all she could about this Nancy woman. Surely Irene could find out if Mycroft Holmes had indeed hidden bodies or spirited the men away somewhere?

"I probably could, but I have to be careful, Mycroft thinks I'm dead. His lovely brother saved my life. It's only because of Sherlock Holmes that I'm back in London. If, and I say _if_ he is still alive, then he will know if his arch-nemesis is also. Moriarty _is_ real, he's not an actor, he killed a classmate who was better at swimming than him back in the 1980s. The man is a psychopath. There's definitely no such person as Richard Brook, whatever that silly little girl from the _Sun_ believes," Irene said, as she and Scarlet stood on the rear balcony.

Scarlet gave her friend a sidealong glance, "You really want this Sherlock Holmes to be who he says he is, don't you? I mean… is there something more there, don't tell me, oh, please, don't tell me the Woman has a crush on the dishy detective? Irene, what will people say?"

Irene smiled a secret smile and took a long draw on her cigarette, "I don't care. I've never met a man like that before. Someone who can read me inside out, and everyone else in the room. Yet he's so cool, cold even, you know, we've been texting for ages up until last week," she said.

"What? Really? Texting or text sex?"

"Just texting! I've asked him out for dinner about twenty times! You might call it 'intellectual intercourse'! I don't think I'm getting anywhere, and then there he is, like Lawrence of Arabia, telling me to run! And even after that, even after getting me safely to France, he buzzes off back to Baker Street! I don't know, I really don't, but I'd be very sad if I thought Moriarty had got the better of him," Irene sighed.

"Hmm, talking of identity crises, I remembered in _Hamlet_, how the Prince plays mad, and by the time he has that awful scene where he rejects Ophelia, we all think he has gone round the bend, don't you think that Sherlock Holmes might have played the fraud just to induce Moriarty to pull the trigger? Hiding in plain sight? Just like I fear our Dr Morton might still be deceiving me?"

Irene sighed again and blew a cloud of smoke into the sharp winter air. "Maybe. Sherlock's never read any Shakespeare. He's got the most ridiculous gaps in his knowledge, but then he once texted and said he only learns what he feels he needs to know. Some perverted genius, huh?"

"Well, whatever the case, I think you have no need to be concerned about your detective's sincerity. It would make perfect sense for his brother to cover the whole thing up in collusion with D.I. Lestrade, just so they could get Moriarty. Sounds like there was no use actually arresting him, getting him to bring about his own demise was the only answer! It all sounds like a plot by John Le Carre. So, we make sure the Irishman's dead, and I'll get on with helping Rafe Charteris out of the hole he's in," Scarlet said.

"Yes, and my rubber-fetish client may just have some ideas. Better get ready. Oh, are you still going to let Dr Morton fix your scar?" Irene turned to re-enter the room, and looked back at Scarlet.

"Of course! If he could do what he did for that poor girl, then I trust him to sort out the mess that the NHS made of this!" she exclaimed, pulling back her red tresses to reveal the crooked scar on her neck.

"My dear girl, that's awful. Thank goodness for plastic surgery!"

Michael Morton was in his bed at home. He had tried to sleep, but his chest ached, and his mind was whirling with unpleasant thoughts. The phone on the bedside table rang.

"Uh, hello? Dr Morton here."

"Dr Morton, nice to get a hold of you at last, they told me at your work you'd gone home early. Have you thought any more about making a clean breast of things?" the voice was male, not one he recognised, but there was the slightest trace of an Irish accent.

"What? Who is this?" Michael gasped, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine.

"I wrote to you, it's Richard Brook, my friend, Kitty is a journalist for the _Sun_ newspaper. 'Fraid I fibbed a little about being a journalist myself," the voice tittered, "Kitty's very interested in this story, she'd really like to meet you!"

"Wait a minute, you're… you're supposed to be dead!" Michael snapped.

"Er, no, quite alive, thanks for asking. Look, I'm just concerned for your …legitimate patients, they wouldn't be too happy to find out you were treating criminals. If you give us the story we can make it work for you, but all these delays, well, Kitty's editor is keen that any exposés are done as soon as possible to prevent evidence being destroyed," the voice sounded sinister now.

"Look, I don't know who the hell you are, but there is no evidence, there is nothing! If you call this number again I'll …just leave me alone!" Michael exclaimed, and slammed the phone back on the hook. His heart raced and he grabbed for his inhaler which was beside the phone. _What a mess! Dead men are stalking me_! He picked the phone up again and punched in the numbers for the clinic. He asked for Chantal, knowing he could rely on her discretion. She provided him with the contact number for Jenny Summers. Chantal enquired after his health, saying she thought he sounded worse. He assured her he'd just woken up and was fine. Then he called Scarlet's number.

He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. No illusions of beasties crawling out of the light fitting this time. The dial tone rang and rang for several minutes, but then a familiar voice said, "Hello, sorry, just got in, who is it?"

"Scarlet Ribbon, it's me, Dr Morton. I've just had a call from a man who you said was supposed to be dead."

"Oh ho. Who did he say he was this time?" Scarlet was immediately on alert.

"Richard Brook. If your villain did commit suicide, then either this man isn't him, or someone really has come back from the dead," Michael told her.

She could hear his rapid breathing. _This isn't good. _"I'll get to the bottom of this. Are you ok? Seriously, Michael, I don't want _him_ causing you grief. He's why you're in this mess. Would you like me to come over?"

Michael just laughed. "It's a bit of a turnaround from this morning. But yes, I'm flat out, I can't take any more steroid drugs for my asthma until tomorrow, so I won't be trying to assault you."

"Oh don't worry about this morning. Where do you live?"

"St. Mary's Crescent, Isleworth, it's on the same street as Osterley Public Library, number ten, just at the corner of Jersey Gardens, it's a bowling green," he explained.

"Alright, I'll take the car, sounds like you need protecting."

**Chapter 3**

Isleworth was part of the London suburb of Osterley, west of Brentford. The side streets were lined with turn-of-the century semis and detached houses, much like those in Richmond. Scarlet was driving her old Range Rover, as the Porsche had been a write-off after the accident. There was a new one on order, but she would miss her 911. Soon she found the junction at Great West Road into Thornbury Road, where her sat-nav system proclaimed she should turn right at the next exit. Cruising slowly down St. Mary's Crescent, she saw the library, and caught sight of the trees fringing the bowling green. She drew up outside number 10.

Michael was waiting at the door for her when she walked up the drive past the Aston Martin. His neighbour over the fence had a rather nice new Mercedes A-class. Decent neighbours? They could as well be drug dealers hiding out in the sticks! He was standing there in a pair of grey shorts and t-shirt.

"I'm relieved to see you, I can tell you that!" he exclaimed.

"I'm worried about you, especially because I know that Moriarty and Holmes, dead or alive never appeared in the mortuary at St. Bart's for more than a few minutes, if at all. The official line was that MI5 had taken charge of the 'bodies'. Anyway, you really need to improve your taste in bed wear, those PJs look past their best!" she smiled playfully.

Inside they walked through to the kitchen where Michael filled the kettle and switched it on. Scarlet looked around the kitchen. "Rather pleasant décor, typically male choice though, I'd recognise a B&Q DIY suite anywhere. Did you do it?" she observed.

"Heavens no, I'm hopeless at that sort of thing. Much happier with a scalpel in my hand in a sterile operating theatre," Michael replied. "You're rather good at observing, have you decided whether I'm telling the truth yet?"

"Mm, almost convinced. Did you check the number that our Mr Brook called from?"

"Blocked. I'm not surprised, if you're going to blackmail someone, you don't generally let them have _your_ phone number. But it was interesting, he said he wasn't a journalist, but his friend Kitty Riley was, now I heard her name, she's the one that wrote that ridiculous story about that detective you keep mentioning. She hasn't a clue. Her grammar is shocking and she's the worst sort of gutter hack that feeds the Jeremy Kyle generation all the scandal they could possibly desire! I mean, I don't read the _Sun_, but it's in the waiting room, our receptionist Agnes, she reads it, mainly because her boyfriend, who is a brickie buys it at the station, and they read over it on the Tube on the way into town," he explained.

"Methinks the gentleman protests too much. Come on, I bet you normally read the _Express_, but you can't help having a peek at the scandal rags now and again. I know, even in the best hair salon in London you'll find the same stupid magazines full of lurid stories of the famous and not-so-famous making idiots of themselves," Scarlet laughed.

"I just don't want to end up _in_ one of those publications myself! I _know_ all my patients, none of them are… oh, er, apart from you, but then, I didn't suspect anything before I saw you with Irene Adler," he stopped, realising the import of his words.

"That's just it, Dr Morton, you don't know, most people in my circle are very discrete about their method of earning money, it's only flash gits like that boy who come in throwing their money around. They're the ones who usually go to South America or something to a clinic where there really are no questions asked! I'm sure your clients are all perfectly upstanding citizens, it's just that I saw an advert for your clinic on one of the notice boards in the hospital. I took it away with me, as I guessed the NHS don't take kindly to the private sector. It wasn't your fault. Anyway, we'll have to see what Irene finds out later today. Meanwhile, I shall stay here until we know otherwise," Scarlet looked at her watch, "Four o'clock, time for an early dinner, yes?"

"Cheeky, but yes, I just realised I'm starving. Er, who's cooking?"

"Depends what you have in the fridge and cupboards."

In the end, they both worked together and made a meal of salmon steaks smeared with honey and wholegrain mustard, roasted vegetables and potatoes. They sat at the black glass table in the dining area at the opposite end of the kitchen. Michael munched thoughtfully and looked at Scarlet. He was intrigued by the curious colour of her eyes, they appeared blue, but on closer inspection they were a shade of violet like the flower itself.

"Did anyone every comment on the fact you have the most unique colour of eyes?"

"Mm, all the time," she said between mouthfuls. "When I was born they were just plain blue, but my mother noticed that by the time I was a year old they had turned a sort of violet. She said it was a little miracle just for me because we'd lost my father when I was born. I think he was dead before I'd even been delivered. My mother is a devout Catholic, despite the fact she hates Irish people, but that's for good reason as you might guess."

"It's very rare, but possible. Melanin is what creates eye colour, but genetics determine it. Blue-eyed people generally have much less of the substance than green or brown-eyed people. The amount of Melanin must have created that unusual colour. It's nice, even from a doctor's point of view, sorry, I'm rambling like an idiot." Michael stopped, and looked away.

"Yes, I noticed. You told me I had natural beauty today, but then, wasn't that in response to me criticising 'plastic princesses'?" Scarlet smirked.

"We-ell, yes and no, I just meant you are the least likely candidate for plastic surgery, but I definitely agree that the stitch scarring is unsightly. Don't let me get on my hobby horse about NHS hospitals! That's why I left and went into private practice so I could take my time, instead of rushing people in and out like a damn conveyer belt!" Michael told her.

Scarlet laughed aloud, "There, now, I've got at the truth, you don't really care about money, other than money to keep the clinic going, or you wouldn't have helped that Indian girl. You're a decent man, Dr Morton, and it's only that scumbag Moriarty that forced you into this. However, I have found a little project you can help me with, and although it involves deception, it is in a good cause, saving a friend of mine from certain emotional destruction."

She told him about Rafe and the plan. He listened intently while carrying on with his meal. When she finished her story, he took a drink of water from his glass. For a long time neither of them said nothing.

"It sounds like just the sort of thing I would do anyway. And, if you say Rafe's cousin is a hotshot lawyer, this may very well work. And yes, there are many conditions you can mimic with drugs, I mean, look at the Ketamine, I was seeing things when I came round. It is a very delicate game though, I'd have to make sure I had exactly the right doses, I wouldn't want him to become addicted," Michael finally said.

"You better read the Raffles story then, deduce from that what he was pretending to have," Scarlet added. "You know, I did have an inkling the minute I pinned you to the floor that you were really just a very silly person who was in over his head, and I'm very glad you've just proved it to me."

"Is that you flirting, or telling me the truth?" he smiled.

Scarlet was beginning to like the way his mouth curled as he did so. He looked very cute and studious behind those glasses; added to that the silver fox hair, and he was, just as she had confided in Irene, an attractive man indeed.

"You ain't seen nothing yet," she said. "I told you, I'm every man's worst nightmare."

"I know, I remember, and I'm just a crazy old man who doesn't know not to play with fire!"

"Michael, fifty-five isn't old! Gee, no, Rafe's sister's boss, Dr Forsyth, the lawyer, he's in his late sixties and is a _doll_. You men are lucky, you sometimes get more attractive with age, unlike us poor girls who have to rely on good genetics or a surgeon like yourself."

"Fifty-five? Did you look at my driving licence?"

Scarlet nodded, "Don't leave a bag in the same room as me, I'm going to look in it whatever! And while we're at it, since you seem to think my face isn't all bad, how old do you think I am, I mean, I know you know my real age, but just tell me, flatter me!" she said, leaning forward and looking at him coyly.

"Ah, ha, whatever I say I'm going to be shot down in flames, right?" Scarlet waved a dismissive hand at him. "Alright, looking at you, your complexion, the condition of your hair, you look more like someone in their mid-twenties, not a thirty-two year old, happy?"

Scarlet leaned even nearer and clasped her hand against the back of his neck, until she'd pulled him right up to her nose. "Very happy, Dr Morton, very…" she kissed him, right out of the blue. Michael froze, but he soon felt his senses whirling again. _This girl is a dark angel indeed, I can't do this!_ He pulled away and sat back in his chair.

"Scarlet, I can't… I mean, I can't just start something with you, especially not

the situation being as it is. Yes, you are pretty, you're beautiful, but that's just it, I'm too old, and I'm in trouble, I don't _do_ this sort of thing. I've been single for years, mainly because I'm a workaholic, I'm almost sure that my lovely junior nurse would be even kinder to me if she knew I fancied her, but I haven't the guts. I get an asthma attack and feel I've got one foot in the grave, so no, I can't do this. Yes, I'm scared of this Brook character, but I'm equally scared of you." He confessed.

Scarlet was surprised. It was rare that any man she turned her affections on refused her. But he was right, until Moriarty/Brook was dealt with, there would be no chance. He really was an honourable man. "I'm sorry, Michael, I cannot help myself. Yes, I'll look after you and make sure that lunatic cannot touch you, but I love men, I love seduction, it's what I'm really best at!" she sighed. "But I'm not soft like Irene's gone over her detective, if you don't want it, I'm not going to persist."

She stood up and walked over to the fridge, opening it, she found the bottle of red Zinfandel, and brought it back to the table, proceeding to open it and pour it into her empty water tumbler. Michael recognised the actions of a woman thwarted. "For once, you make me wish I _was_ bad."

Scarlet said nothing. For several minutes she downed more and more wine. The phone rang. Michael was startled. Scarlet leapt to her feet and ran towards the sound of ringing. Michael ran after her, but she grabbed the receiver, just as he tried to pull her away by wrapping his arms around her waist. She waited for the caller to speak. "Richard here again, who's your lady friend?"

"I know who you are, you little scumbag Irish gypsy! Stop faking it and leave Michael alone, or you seriously will regret ever crossing me. I don't care if you're a psychopath, I've done things that would make you vomit! Now, get off this line, because the next time you call, it'll be one of my friends who answers, and they'll find out where you are and destroy you, got that?" Scarlet hissed, the wine like fire in her throat.

"I beg your pardon? I'm not Irish, I'm an English actor. Sorry, I think I must have the wrong number, excuse me," the voice said.

"You liar. Richard Brook doesn't exist, but Moriarty is _real_! Cross me and I will tear your heart out with my own fingers!" Scarlet retorted.

"Sorry, I definitely have misdialled, I'll hang up." The line went dead.

"That was him, the lying, evil, bastard!" Scarlet snapped. Michael pulled her to her feet.

"Scarlet, you were brilliant! I've never heard such venom. Whoever was on the end of the line isn't going to be calling back in a hurry," he laughed.

"So much for being good, huh?" she grinned, leaning against him and tracing her finger across his cheek.

"Ah, I'm not going back on my word. I'm a mess, I'm not going to get entangled with you in any other way. I suspect I might not like everything about Scarlet Ribbon if I got too close," he said, his hands around her slender waist.

"Mm, probably not, but wasn't it a nice kiss?" she drawled.

"Yes, it was, no woman has kissed me like that in a very long time. You're like a drug, Scarlet Ribbon, I think I might get addicted to you, whether I like it or not," Michael replied.

"Why don't _you_ kiss me the way you would someone you fancied, huh?" Scarlet asked, quite soberly.

Michael looked at her again. She was as beautiful as Chantal, but full of fire and danger, not the sort of girl he could rely on. But why not? Why shouldn't he show her what the kiss of a decent man was like? He stroked back her hair, exposing the scar, and bent close. Scarlet felt the gentle touch of his lips on the broken skin. He looked deeply into those pools of violet and realised that yes, he was hooked, he couldn't get away now. He kissed her mouth ever so gently, like a butterfly's touch, she imagined. Scarlet wanted to melt. _To hell with all those stupid novels, and the fools that visit Irene's, this is what it's all about, gentility so pure it hurts_, she thought. She couldn't help but respond, but just as she'd kissed him back, he pulled away again. But this time she smiled. She realised his eyes were glassy with tears. _Aw, he's so worried he's gone wrong_. She flicked away the tear that spilled over and trickled down his cheek. "You're a good man, Michael Morton, a very good man. Now go upstairs and rest, I'll tidy up, and wait here until Irene calls me, ok?"

He let go of her and raised his hands as if in surrender, then walked through the doorway of the lounge and upstairs. Scarlet couldn't remember ever meeting someone as kind and decent. _Maybe I've been wrong all the time, maybe there's something to be said for being good._

**Chapter 4**

"Ooh, Rich, I'm so relieved to see you!" Kitty Riley enthused, wrapping her arms around the man she believed was a 'resting' actor.

"Are you really?" he replied, Kitty realised there was a different tone in his voice, not one she had noticed before.

"Of course I am! You poor dear, you've been so maligned by that stupid man, he was just an ego-maniac! And, I was a bit worried, you know, after the suicide? One of our rival publications said you were the one playing the part of Moriarty and you had shot yourself on the roof! Tell me it's nonsense, but it must be, you're here, alive, living and breathing!" Kitty exclaimed, still cuddling him as he stood in the doorway of her flat.

"That's a silly thing to say, Kitty, of course I'm not dead, and what are you talking about? Who committed suicide?" Richard said, as if suddenly concerned.

"Oh come in and I'll tell you all about it!" Kitty replied, taking his hand and pulling him inside. "I do like your suit, had an audition did you?" she observed, as Richard sat down on the wooden dining chair in her dingy studio.

"Audition? Mm, no," he said.

"Ah, ok, let me get the kettle on, it's Baltic outside, you must be freezing without an overcoat!"

She disappeared into the tiny galley kitchen and he heard the tap and the rattle of crockery. When she returned a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee she noticed how he was sitting, confident, airy, regarding his nails. "Oh, your hair's different too, that's quite slick that gelled look, em, did you have a job interview or something? I thought… oh yes, you can afford new stuff now, were you treating yourself?"

"Mm, you might call it that. Now, come here my little friend, tell me about this suicide, sounds very sad," Richard said, with a smile on his lips that was more like a leer. He beckoned her, "Come on, sit on my knee," he added.

Kitty stared, then smiled. She put the mugs down on the table next to where he was sitting. "You're in a flirty mood today, Rich, er, I thought you wanted us just to be friends?"

"Oh come on, we know it was more than that, I knew the minute I met you that you liked me, tell the truth, you _really _like me, don't you?" Richard's smile was truly disturbing like a spreading crack on a gravestone. He grabbed her hand and pulled her in one motion down onto his lap.

"Ooh, em, this is er… nice, Rich, I didn't know you felt this way!" Kitty said, watching nervously as his right arm slid along her shoulder until his hand squeezed tightly on her upper arm. He put his left hand on her stockinged thigh and left it there. "Em, ok, can't you guess who killed themselves? Took a flyer off St. Bart's roof. Our mutual friend… Mr Sherlock Holmes!"

"Ah, finally rid of him at last, eh? Good riddance to bad rubbish then," Richard said silkily. "What was that about you thinking I was on a roof?" his hand slid up her thigh to the hem of her tartan mini skirt.

Kitty felt a little sick, where was the sweet, daffy actor with the tousled hair? "Rich, sure you don't have a twin brother? Not like you to be so forward!" she observed.

"Oh dear, is my little baby frightened of the scary man in the suit?" he mocked, leaning his face closer to hers.

"Oh don't be silly, Rich, I mean, I'm flattered, but… anyway, where have you been?" she asked, trying to avoid his gaze.

"Found you a new story. A naughty doctor treating criminals at his plastic surgery clinic in Kensington. Talk about two-faced! I've challenged him about it several times, _and_ I called him earlier today, he just bleated on about there being no evidence. Isn't it terrible how someone can smile and smile and be a villain?" Richard leered.

"Oh wait a minute, I get it! Sorry, Rich, I really thought for a minute…you're practising, aren't you? Method acting, getting right into character, right? A Shakespearean villain? Um, Richard III, ha ha, now that would be appropriate!" Kitty laughed, sighing with relief. "Now if there was ever a man with a bad press! It's a lot of crap, _he_ wasn't a villain. But the play is great, that hammy portrayal by Olivier, now that's fantastic! Are you doing the bit where he seduces Lady Catherine over her husband's corpse? Gee, now there are some creepy chat-up lines in there!"

"Who's acting?" Richard grinned. He pulled his hand up from her thigh and began to stroke his whole hand down her throat. "You know, when someone's fulfilled a purpose, they're kinda surplus to requirements. Just like Sherlock Holmes."

"Wow, you're good, that's worthy of a BAFTA any day, that voice, it's truly chilling, I could just believe you're a cold-hearted killer!" Kitty enthused.

"There comes a time when you _do_ have to tell the truth, and I'm afraid this is it for you, Kitty Riley. But you'll have all the recognition you desire, front page news!" Richard's voice was cold as ice.

"Really? I mean, I know I work for probably the worst tabloid left in Fleet Street, but yeah, it would be really nice to get recognition… urgh, Rich…" she fought for breath and tried to strike out at him, but Richard's hands were tightly around her neck, crushing ever closer, she felt her skin start to burn. Her flailing arms could find no target, and her lungs ached as they were deprived of air. _He'll stop in a minute, he's just being silly, showing off_… she tried to convince herself.

"But there's a truth you won't ever know, Kitty… the identity of the man who… RIPPED YOUR HEAD OFF!" he squeezed and twisted, imposing force against the skin, bone and muscle, until a trickle of blood appeared below the rapidly bruising skin. He twisted, and then with a final flick, the flesh on Kitty's neck tore. Arterial blood sprayed across the room as the veins in her neck burst under the pressure. Then he snapped her neck to one side. A shard of bone protruded under her left ear. He let go and Kitty's body fell off his lap and onto the floor.

"What a bloody mess, Kitty, you should keep this place tidier!" he said. Standing up and catching sight of himself in the long mirror on the wall by the kitchen door, he straightened his silk tie. The pale face was splattered in blood, as was the shirt collar and shoulder of the jacket. "Still got the old magic, eh? Hmm, poor cow, that'll teach her to talk to strange men." Half an hour later he left as the tousled-haired actor in an old pullover, jeans, trainers and a denim jacket.

_Going to find that Kitty Riley – she seemed to be the only one who might know if our Irish friend is alive_. Scarlet looked at the screen of her smartphone. "Good luck with that, Irene, I wouldn't dirty my hands with a hack like her."

Irene was quite glad she'd divested herself of her high heels and finery. Dressed in a black hooded tracksuit, black trainers, and wearing an i-Pod Shuffle on a band around her arm, she looked like any other night-time jogger, pounding the pavements. It was very easy to find Kitty's address, Half Moon Lane was directly outside the North Dulwich Overground station. She trotted along the road, hood up. It was a truly horrible 1960s slate roofed block, only three storeys, up off the road. She jogged into the drive and up to the right-hand door, scanning the bank of buzzers. She saw it, _K RILEY_ in handwritten capital letters. Pressing the buzzer with the tip of her immaculately manicured nail, Irene could hear the bell echo from inside. She waited a few moments and buzzed again. No answer. Hmm, no matter. She buzzed the one down below. A sleepy voice answered.

"Oh hi! Look, I'm the sister of your upstairs neighbour, Kitty, I can't get her to answer the door, I'm just wondering if she's in the bath and can't hear me? I've lost me spare key!" Irene drawled, affecting a broad South London accent.

"Yeah, yeah, ok, buzzing you in," the voice replied.

Irene pushed against the door and it opened as the lock clicked back. She jogged up the stairs, seeing nothing as she passed the downstairs doors. Stopping in front of Kitty's door she listened for a moment. There was no noise at all from inside. Trying the handle, she found it was unlocked. She walked inside. The studio flat was in semi-darkness. There was clutter everywhere, bags, newspapers, empty bottles. Irene ventured forward and looked about. She felt her shoe strike against something on the floor. Below her was Kitty with her mangled neck. Irene felt bile rise in her throat. _Ugh, well, well, two prime suspects, one of Mycroft's goons ensuring her slander dies with her, or… Moriarty isn't dead. _

He was forever issuing hammy threats about skinning people alive, ripping her arms off, burning their hearts out, but this time he'd really done it. He'd tried to pull her head off her shoulders. _Time I wasn't here_, she thought, crept quietly out of the flat, and as noiselessly down the stairs as she could before jogging nonchalantly along the drive and onto the pavement. She waited until she was back at North Dulwich Station. Irene always carried a spare mobile phone with her which had a pay-and-go SIM card, just in case of emergency. She pressed in the numbers. "Hello? Yes, police and ambulance, there's been an awful accident at 189 Half Moon Lane in North Dulwich. Girl with her neck broken. Her name's Kitty Riley." The operator checked the location, but just as she asked Irene her name, the disguised dominatrix clicked the phone off. She stood in the station entrance for several minutes, peering into the dimly lit street. It was still bitterly cold, wouldn't be a surprise if it snowed tonight. To her relief she saw a police car come haring along Red Post Hill and turning into Half Moon Lane, quickly followed by an ambulance. Things just got a whole lot worse. She wished there and then she could call Sherlock Holmes. But if he was dead, Mycroft would have his phone, and any texts from her would alert him to her return to England. _But I don't think it would even take you to work out the identity of Kitty's killer._

Scarlet Ribbon was wandering around in Michael Morton's house, picking up ornaments, pictures, looking at his DVD collection which consisted of medical dramas and documentaries on facial reconstruction. _Aw, boring, Dr Morton, you take your work home with you too?_ She did like the New York cityscape which he had in a silver frame above the fireplace. That contained a gas fire in a plain white wood and cream marble surround. Books! They were in another room – which was set up like a home office next to the kitchen-diner. There were the usual medical tomes, _British National Formulary_, _Gray's Anatomy, Grabb and Smith's Plastic Surgery, Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery_, a few oddities, _Halliwell's Film Guide_, probably to ensure he knew which actors his vainer clients wanted to look like, and very nice, _Architectural Papers of Charles Rennie Mackintosh_. There were diet books, epidemiology books, volumes from the _British Notable Trials _series which Scarlet recognised as also gracing the shelves of Rafe's bookcase. He certainly liked a thought-provoking read!

To her relief, when turning around, there was a space between one bookcase and the door in which stood a stack of paperback novels. _Ken Follet, Hilary Mantel, John Le Carre,_ oh, good taste, good taste! On top of the pile was the latest novel by Umberto Eco, _The Prague Cemetery_. Scarlet picked it up. She had seen some favourable online reviews of this and decided to have a quick read.

She was deep into chapter two when her phone rang. The sound startled her, but she took it out of her pocket. It was Irene's number. "Any joy with the hack?"

"Well, no, not exactly, somebody's hacked her instead," Irene sounded a little breathless.

"What?"

"She's dead. And in a manner which I reckon fits our Irish friend perfectly unless he has a twin brother as psychopathic as himself."

"Damn, I was really hoping he _had_ done away with himself. Odious individual. So, I guess it was him who called here in the late afternoon."

"Really? Oh my, maybe you should be careful, I take it you are at the good doctor's house?"

"Yes I am, he called me in a terrible tizzy. Then while I was _here_ the phone rang and I'm sure it was him. Kept saying he was Richard Brook. Told him to lay off or I'd deal with him. So, we have a problem then, could it be that there _is_ a real Richard Brook and he's a murderous maniac, or is he another Moriarty, or is he the original one? I don't like this at all," Scarlet said.

"I think I'll try to find Sherlock Holmes… I'm sure he's alive. Honestly, Scarlet, I am actually scared. If we don't know who killed Kitty, then we don't know who died on the roof," Irene replied. Scarlet could hear fear in her voice.

"Where are you?"

"On a train, heading back to my place. I might just phone a male friend. I'm sorry, I'm being a paranoid fool, but Moriarty knows me, if it is him, he'll come looking for me," Irene said.

"No don't apologise, you take care, oh… what about Kate? Is she at the house on her own?" Scarlet suddenly realised the extent of the danger this killer posed to everyone connected with the Sherlock Holmes case.

"Oh no! Yes, she is, oh hell, we're just about coming into Victoria. Look, I'll call you back once I know everything is alright. He wouldn't be so cruel, surely, not Kate, he knows how I feel about her!" Irene's line went dead.

"This is not good enough," Scarlet said aloud, "I can't have my friends being terrorised by that Irish maniac or his dopplegangers! Nothing for it, I'll have to call that inspector, he's the one who was chummy with this Sherlock Holmes character!"

"Inspector, there's a call for you!"

"Cheers lad, go get me a cuppa, will you?" D.I. Greg Lestrade took the cordless phone from the detective constable's hand. "Yeah? Lestrade here."

"You are, were an associate of Sherlock Holmes, am I right?" the voice was female, refined.

"Uh-huh, but he um, he's dead. Here, who is this?" Greg asked, puzzled. _Some of Mycroft's spooks, eh?_

"My name is Jenny Summers, but you know my friend, Irene Adler. Now, if you were to be in your call centre right now, there would probably be a call-out to a house in North Dulwich, reported as 'an awful accident', but when your Met colleagues get there, they'll find a well-known journalist murdered. She was the one who tried to make the public believe that Holmes was a fraud, and Moriarty was just a character played by an actor called Richard Brook. Now, you and I know otherwise. I need to know, is that odious little Irishman dead? And I mean, really dead, not hidden away by the security services or rubbish like that! It looked very much to Irene like he _isn't_ and is now on a killing spree. She's afraid her assistant is in danger, since she's in the house all on her own, and I'm a bit concerned as there's a man calling himself Richard Brook who is attempting to blackmail a very good friend of mine! It's high time you did something about it, Inspector!" Scarlet Ribbon was shaking in rage by the time she drew breath.

"Woah, woah, just reverse back a bit. I know there's been a call-out to North Dulwich, I actually heard it on the police band radio just now. But how the hell do you … oh, right, so what was Irene Adler doing at the house of a _Sun_ journalist? You're asking _me_ if I know about Moriarty's whereabouts? If I'd had a call like this eighteen months ago I would've thought you were a crank, but yeah, I knew Holmes, and he was a right pain in the arse, but a damn good detective. As far as I know, he and Moriarty are dead. The corpses were brought down to the hospital mortuary," Lestrade explained.

"Afraid that isn't good enough, _Greg_, I know for a fact Mycroft's men spirited the 'corpses', if you want to call them that, away, supposedly to be dealt with by MI5's own pathologists. I really don't want there to be another death before you get around to believing me. Get over to Belgravia right now!" Scarlet ordered.

"Wait a minute, I can't go diving in there like some lunatic, if a crime's being committed, then somebody ought to call us!" Lestrade replied and realised how stupid his last comment sounded.

"I _am_ calling you. I'm trying to prevent a murder!" she insisted.

"Oh hell… alright, I'll go and have a look. Are you going to be there?"

"No, I'm making sure he doesn't turn up where I am! For the love of common sense, Lestrade, get your butt in gear!"

The line went silent.

"Gee, what was that about, sir? Sounded a bit mad," the constable commented.

"It will be if nothing is happening. Get your coat, we've got to investigate something," Lestrade sighed, "I can't have maniacs running around loose in my division!"

By the time Irene had found a taxi and made it back to Belgravia, she saw the police car outside her house. Thinking the worst, she quickly paid the driver and raced across to the pavement. Lestrade and his constable were just getting out of their vehicle.

"Oh, D.I. Lestrade, am I relieved to see you! Did uh, Jenny call you?" Irene exclaimed.

"Yeah, said your assistant might be in danger. We'd better go see," Lestrade replied, rubbing his hands together briskly in the bitter night air.

The three of them ran up the steps; Irene tried the door and to her horror, found it was off the latch. "Oh no, Kate would never leave it open like that!" She pushed the door open wide to find the large hallway empty.

"Kate? Kate, sweetie, are you here?" she called.

"Better start looking in the rooms, Miss Adler," Lestrade offered.

"Did you hear that, sir? Sounded like a muffled cry," Detective Constable Western commented.

"From where?" Irene demanded, as she followed Western up the main stair.

"Up to the right here, I think!"

"Well done, constable, take it carefully, we want to catch the nutter in the act if we can," Lestrade advised.

"Kate's room is along this way, oh I hope we're not too late!" Irene was highly agitated now, her heart racing. She directed them to the third door along the corridor, and leaned against the wood panelling. "Kate, Kate, are you in there?"

There was a muffled bleating sound like a lamb from within. Irene turned and shot Lestrade a worried look. He inclined his head as if to suggest he should enter first. Irene nodded rapidly. Lestrade opened the door wide and strode forward. "Oh shit!" he groaned. Irene gaped in terror as she saw the macabre sight of Kate dangling from the ornate Victorian light fitting, a black stocking tied brutally tight around her neck. Lestrade yelled at Western to grab a chair, which he did and brought it under Kate's feet, as Lestrade himself grabbed Kate's legs and hoisted her up. Western quickly scrambled up on the chair and slashed the stocking away from the chain of the light fitting. He and Lestrade lifted Kate onto her bed; Western shoved his fingers under the stocking and cut the rest of it away from her neck.

"No, no, no, he can't do this, he can't!" Irene felt herself shake uncontrollably, as she watched Lestrade try to revive her assistant. Kate's face was a sickly pale blue. Lestrade pushed back one of her eyelids, seeing blood streaked over the eyeballs. It looked too late. There was no pulse or breathing, but he began by thumping her breastbone hard with his fist, remembering his first aid training.

As he began to press his hands down on her chest, he ordered Western to call for paramedics. Irene was muttering wildly to herself. _This wasn't happening, it couldn't! I didn't grass him up, why would he turn on me? And Kate's done nothing to him, she's innocent, why would he hurt someone I love?_

Western wisely looked around the room and spotted that the window was wide open. He leaned out and looked into the dark garden. Peering into the distance he saw the wrought iron gate swinging back and forth. "I'll just check outside, sir, we might just have missed him!" he said and ran from the room.

Lestrade pushed up and down, hearing the disturbing sound of Kate's ribs creak under the pressure of his hands. "You think it's him? Moriarty, I mean? Your pal seemed convinced that it was. I saw him shoot himself, Irene, I stood on that roof last week and watched as he put the gun barrel in his mouth. He blew his brains out, I don't see anybody faking that," he said, glancing at her as she paced and wrung her hands.

"Then who is against me? And why did he kill Kitty Riley? You've not seen it yet, Lestrade, her head was practically hanging off her neck, it was sick! _If_ he isn't Moriarty, then he must be a relative, or worse, someone who wanted to take over from him as kingpin!" she hissed.

"Now that sounds more like an explanation, but we've got to look at everything, get the forensics in, do a post-mortem on Riley, we can't just work it out like that!" he replied in an exasperated tone.

"No, _you_ can't, but the one man who could tell from the off is supposed to be dead too! If you were there, you saw him jump, but _is_ Sherlock Holmes really dead, or was it a stunt?" she retorted.

"I don't know! Mycroft wasn't about to let me in on the whole secret, was he? There's something queer going on, that's for sure! I was in the mortuary and saw two bodies brought in on trolleys, both covered with a sheet. Molly Hooper, our pathologist, pulled back the sheet over Moriarty to show Mycroft. He said 'Not so cocky now, my prize peacock!' He was loving it! So, no, I don't know who the other body was!" He was tiring of the CPR, as there seemed to be no response from the unfortunate Kate. He stopped for a moment, and felt for the carotid pulse. "Nothing. Look at her, she's gone, I'm sorry," he said.

"No! Don't stop, please, please, Greg, keep trying!" Irene dashed forward and slipped her arm across Kate's limp body.

"Irene, we don't know how long she was hanging, the tightness of the ligature, the height of the ceiling here, it only takes four minutes for the brain to be starved of oxygen, I think we'd need a miracle to bring her back, I'm really sorry, honestly," he assured, putting his hand across hers.

She batted him away, and held Kate close. She began to weep. Lestrade stood up and walked away. He hated seeing women cry. His ex-wife had used it as a weapon often enough, but real tears of pain and loss, it was too much to bear. He picked his mobile out of his pocket. "Constable, you find anything outside?" he asked, as Western answered.

"No sir, but there's a back lane behind the house, probably where he escaped. I'm out front, the ambulance should be here soon," he replied.

"I think it's too late, son, I've done CPR for a good while, no response. Just wait for them and bring them inside as soon as, ok?"

"Yes sir, will do," Western affirmed.

Irene felt the soft touch of Kate's auburn hair against her neck. "Oh darling, why did he have to do this? I'll get him back, I promise! Blood for blood, and I'll be the one wielding the knife!" she whispered, kissing Kate's cheek. She was heavy, cold and clammy, not the living, breathing, cheerful girl she'd laughed with this morning over that cheeky photo on her phone.

"Irene?" Lestrade asked, gently touching her shoulder.

"What?" she muttered.

"If it isn't Moriarty, he'll be easier to catch. No interference from Mycroft or the security services. We'll get him with good old-fashioned police work, I promise. You've got to leave it up to us, really, don't take this into your own hands," Lestrade replied.

"Huh, excuse me if I don't have much confidence in your promise. If I knew how to find Sherlock, I would have that murdering scum strung up by his crown jewels!" she retorted. She turned back to look at Kate. "Kate, sweetie, I'll sort this, I _will_!" she insisted.

The paramedics tried to revive Kate, but again, they too were unable to restart her heart. Irene refused to allow them to remove her body. Lestrade sent them away, saying he would rather the police surgeon saw her in situ. Irene wrapped the silk bed cover around her and followed Lestrade and Western downstairs as their police colleagues entered the room.

Irene sat on the edge of her leather sofa in the main drawing room. She was still shaking. Lestrade stood up beside the mantelpiece, as Western took details about Kate's family.

"You see, Kate's actually related to me. My great aunt, Sydney Burrell's son, Kenneth is Kate's father. We've known each other since childhood. I've always loved her. We lost touch after she went to work as a PA to this city lawyer, then I got a call from her out of the blue that her boss was harassing her. Well, I told her to resign and come work for me, which she did. She was so efficient, discreet, and clever, I wasn't going to have some slimy lawyer ruin her life. I fixed him in the end. Turns out he had quite a kinky streak. He was quite happy to pay Kate compensation rather than have his wife and the Bar Association find out about his sexual proclivities! Now to think it's likely someone we've never met has taken her away from me, it makes me sick!" Irene explained. "I can't imagine what Sydney's going to say."

Lestrade sighed. "Have you got somewhere else to stay for a little bit? I don't think it's wise for you to stay here just now."

"I'll probably go to Sydney's. She lives in Cambridge. Kate's father is an executive at a diamond mine in Botswana, so you'll have some difficulty finding him. Would you, though? I couldn't bear having to tell him." Irene asked.

"That's ok, we'll do that. I'll call him myself, make sure it's done properly," Lestrade assured. "What about tonight?"

Irene took her phone out of her tracksuit jacket pocket and typed in Scarlet's number. More tears fell down her cheeks as she waited for Scarlet to answer.

"Irene?" Scarlet replied.

"She's gone. Kate's gone," Irene sniffed.

"Oh no, no, no, I'm so sorry, do you think it was… him?"

"Maybe, I don't know any more. Lestrade's here, he said he saw Moriarty shoot himself and saw the body in the mortuary. _This_ Richard Brook is someone else. I need to come over, just for tonight, then I'm going to my great aunt's in Cambridge. If it's not Moriarty then he won't know anything about her," Irene said in a deadpan voice.

"Mm, I hope so, for your sake. We really would need your detective now, this no longer makes any sense. But yes, of course, get them to take you here, I'll give you the address. It's not that late yet. I'll tell Michael what's happened. Anyone comes here tonight and they won't be leaving with a pulse. I'm so sorry, Irene, I know Kate was special to you." Scarlet soothed.

"Yeah,… uh, Lestrade's going to call her father. I couldn't speak to Kenneth, I really couldn't, he'd blame me. See you in a bit then," Irene gulped back a sob. Scarlet gave her the exact address of Michael Morton's residence before she ended the call.

"You're going to your friend's place then?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. Jenny."

"Ok. Constable, could you please drive Miss Adler to her friend's house when she's ready? Where is it?"

"Osterley. St Mary's Crescent by the bowling green."

"That's ok, I know it, my granny lives in Osterley," Western answered.

"Good, good," Lestrade said, "Now, Miss Adler, I'll come with you, _just_ incase our murderer is actually hiding in the house."

Irene wiped her eyes and walked out of the room. "By the way, constable, just check who actually lives at that address when you come back, yeah? But be discreet about it." Lestrade whispered to Western as he went past.

**Chapter 5**

Michael had felt even worse after Irene arrived and Scarlet Ribbon explained the whole sorry business. Two murders in one night? This was beginning to sound more like Jack the Ripper every second. Irene was in such a state of distress that she was quite happy to accept a sleeping tablet. Michael showed her the spare bedroom upstairs; she thanked him and shut the door. Scarlet sat on his bed as they discussed the events of the day.

"I think all we can do now is leave things alone – ok, this Richard Brook, who we more or less think is not the psychotic Jim Moriarty, he was harassing you, but then he's gone and committed two murders. Unless he's even more insane than his double, he'll go into hiding for a bit. We have to help Rafe, I promised him. Irene was right when she said that if he isn't Moriarty, he can't know everything about us all, unless he's already got a network, which I don't believe he has. _So_ helping Rafe get rid of that leech he's been tricked into marrying will keep our minds off this awful business and keep us safe, … I hope," she said.

"I really hope so too. But yes, I've got to go back to work tomorrow, I can't let things slide any more than they already have done! It makes me feel so foolish about this morning knowing there's someone out there who would actually set out to kill. I try and save lives, not destroy them. Poor Irene, she's devastated," Michael sighed.

"She loved Kate, what do you expect? Blood is always thicker than water. If anyone came anywhere near my sister, I'd kill them without thinking about it! Mind you, I think I'd have a race against her husband to do so. Anyway…" she stopped, realising she was not wise to reveal the former identity of her brother-in-law to someone she'd only known a few hours.

"Not good." Michael looked over at his alarm clock on the bedside table, "Nearly midnight, I'll have to get some sleep."

"Of course, see you in the morning," Scarlet said, getting up off the bed.

He looked askance at her. "Don't worry about me, your sofa downstairs looks lovely and squishy, I'll sleep there."

"Sorry, I… I just…"

"It's fine, honestly, you made yourself very clear earlier, don't ruin things now!" Scarlet smirked at him, guessing he might have wished her just to stay there all night.

Lestrade was back at New Scotland Yard. It was five o'clock and he had not had any sleep. By now he was on his second glucose drink and was peering at some of the forensics photographs on his laptop which had come from the Kitty Riley murder scene. These were perhaps the most grotesque injuries he'd ever seen. He noticed that the duty police pathologist had written in his email "_Vertebrae completely severed, considerable force applied. Skin torn below left ear, some bone protruding. Likely a very strong male hand. Not seen anything like this in London before, sort of thing you might see in Cuba or Colombia with drug wars. Should be some of the killer's DNA on victim's skin, skin flakes would definitely have transferred."_

"Well, if Dr Craven is even surprised, it would seem I've got a real nasty pasty at large. Can't have that, not in my division!" he said loudly to no-one in particular. The pictures were even more dreadful than Dr Craven's descriptions. Irene was right, he'd tried to rip her head off, like she was a jelly baby. "So, what about Kate Burrell?" he said again.

This time, Anderson answered him, "Just seen the photos, boss, a good hanging!" he said, unnaturally gleefully.

"Bugger off, Anderson, you never saw her hanging there. What did your pals in Forensics say?" Lestrade turned and glowered at his over-enthusiastic colleague.

"Victim had bump on her head, looks like the murderer knocked her out first. Scratch marks on her neck, looked like she'd come round and tried to free herself when he was stringing her up. Nasty, very nasty," Anderson grinned.

"So, I wonder if she let him in, or he forced his way in? They've got a security entry phone with a viewing screen, she would have seen it was him, so why let your boss's enemy into the house?" Lestrade mused aloud.

"She wouldn't have known, boss, they checked it, the electrics had been disconnected from outside, clever bastard! We got another maniac on our hands, then?" Anderson asked, rubbing his hands in expectation.

"If we can prove he carried out both of tonight's murders, then yep. Gee, you cut one head off and another grows in its place!" Lestrade sighed, "Ok, tell them to hurry up the reports as much as they can, put the DNA analysis from both cases on _top_ priority, I don't want your pals wasting time on anything else!"

"Will do, but you won't be popular," Anderson said in a sing-song tone.

"Anderson, I didn't go into CID to be popular, now, go away and don't come back until you've got written evidence for me to see!" Lestrade barked as Anderson trotted away, beaming like a lunatic.

By 10am, Scarlet Ribbon was luxuriating in a private Jacuzzi bath at her favourite spa in Surrey. No-one would be listening to her calls, or causing her grief here. She felt that after a night with hardly any sleep at Michael's – she'd spent the whole night reading the Umberto Eco novel – she deserved some pampering. Her body still ached after her car accident, even though she knew there was nothing else broken or damaged. Self-medicating with a tall, thin-stemmed glass of high quality champagne, leaning her head back on the inflatable pillow which was fixed to the bath, she used her free hand to select a phone number from her mobile. Almost immediately the recipient answered.

"Hi there, who's this? If it's the fraud squad, I'm not here!" the voice was young, agitated.

"Don't worry Mr Raven, it's only your favourite jewel thief. How's my favourite hacker doing?" Scarlet cooed.

"Oh! It's you! You, or rather your Porsche was in the papers. Totalled by the cops, not good. So, you screwing their asses for compensation?" Edward Raven, known to his grungy community of computer geeks as 'Black Raven', due to his jet black hair, sounded slightly less threatened.

"I'll leave that to my lawyer. Now, I need a favour, and don't worry, I'll pay you, cash or in kind, a shiny new gadget perhaps?" Scarlet began.

"Uh huh, what?" Raven answered.

"Find out _everything_ you can about a man called Richard Brook. As far as I know, he's an actor, he is represented by the Mountford Agency in Cranston Hill, born 1979, apparently in Richmond. He may actually just be an alias for someone else who has connections to the Irish Republic, or he may be adopted, so I certainly want to see his birth certificate if at all possible," she explained, staring up at the ornate cornicing in the pale lilac room.

"Ok, noting this down, shouldn't be too hard unless he is a crook, who is he to you?" Raven asked.

"Someone who is causing grief to a friend of mine. He's also going to prove a major distraction if I can't find out where he is and keep him at bay while I do something far more important!" Scarlet said insistently.

"Oh, so, on your hit list then?"

"You could say that, but I've got more sense than to do the actual deed. There are some strange things going on right now, and I'd ask you to look into them too, but I'd be concerned that it would be too close to some extremely important people indeed, the type of people that really can make you disappear with impunity, so go canny, as my mother would say!" Scarlet told him.

"Ohh, you mean… government, spies, eek, right, don't tell me anything else, you can never be sure they haven't really invented thought-crime and can look inside our heads. It's too easy, far too easy. I'll stick to Brook. I'll text you when I've got something, but don't come looking for me, yeah?" Raven warned.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr Raven, why would a cultured person like myself come and visit you in that hovel you call a studio? You have no fears on that score, my friend, I only love you for your brain!" she turned on her sweet tone again, knowing that Raven could be manipulated with a mixture of paranoia and feminine charm.

"Uh huh, catch you later," he said, and the call ended.

_Better, now we'll find out who you really are, you nasty little man._ Just then, a text notification appeared on the screen of the phone. It was from Michael. She quickly pressed the envelope icon to read the message contents.

_Unbelievable. He came into my office! Bold as brass. Tried to call his bluff about Kitty, he didn't flinch. Help!_

She clicked the 'call' icon. "Michael, what's this about, do you mean _Brook_ has been to see you?"

"Yes, yes, I can't understand the gall of him! He's such a cocky little scumbag. I came from doing a procedure first thing, and our receptionist told me there was someone waiting for me in my office. I walked in, and he was sitting in _my_ chair with his feet up on my desk!" Michael exclaimed.

"You're getting breathless, now, just stay calm and tell me exactly what he said," Scarlet asked.

"I know, it's just the nerve! He's a strange little guy, much shorter than me, and I'm no giant, immaculately dressed, slicked back hair, and the most disturbing leer that passes for a smile. I didn't believe in the Devil before today, but if all of what you and Irene have said is true, then the Devil was in my chair barely fifteen minutes ago!" Michael gasped.

"Right, that sounds about the description of Moriarty. What did he say?"

"Asked why I hadn't responded to his communications, said that he'd tried to call me at home last night and was concerned because he got a wrong number and some woman was accusing him of all sorts – I take it that was your wine-fuelled rant at him on the phone – and then, not only did he show me this photograph he had of that little flash crook leaving here, _his_ name really is Lester Arnold, but Brook said something really strange which puzzles me no end… his exact words were, 'what a conflict of interests you must have in this place, treating crooks and working for the police as well.' What the hell does he mean? We don't do any business for the police, we never have! I lost my rag at him, it was either that or have an asthma attack there and then. I mean, I still had my surgical gloves on, I hadn't had time to take them off! I challenged him, said why didn't he call his pal Kitty and get her to talk to me since she was the real journalist, and he claimed his mobile phone was in his car, then I said to use my office phone. The only thing that stopped me was the thought that if he is a criminal, and if he has murdered Kitty Riley, the police will be investigating _me_ if my number comes up on her phone! I threw him out after that and told the receptionist to make sure he never comes here again. Oh Scarlet, it's too much, I really am in the soup, _why_ is he targeting me? Why the clinic? I'm going to have to go through every case file until I find which one of our patients really _has_ done something wrong, and I'll end up suspecting my staff!" he rambled anxiously.

"Well, it was wise not to push that challenge too far. He will be arrested, soon as they find his DNA, they'll get him, of course they will!" she assured.

"Not necessarily, his DNA profile has to be on the Police National Computer database first. This isn't CSI, you can't get matches as quick as that. The police forensics will take a whole day just focusing on the samples from one case to get a profile, let alone a match to other cases. Fingerprinting isn't as advanced as it is on TV either, so we are at risk for at least another twenty-four hours, and he seems to know this, which is why I think he waltzed in here this morning to establish an alibi," Michael explained. "My colleague and business partner, Laurence trained in forensics before he switched to plastic surgery," he added by way of explanation.

"Ok, fine, have it your way. I'm not frightened of him, he doesn't know me from Eve, but I am concerned about you. I have a friend who is currently trying to find out as much as he can about Richard Brook by fair means or foul, _he's_ an expert, so I expect him to beat the scientists to helping us establish Brook's true identity. Look, I'm trying to relax and so should you. Gee, you're so strung up, time you raided your drugs cabinet for some Prozac! I'll see you tonight," she retorted, feeling disappointed that he was being so fearful.

"Scarlet, wait!" Michael retorted, but she was gone. The woman was so maddening! But he knew it was his own fault, he had brought her into his private life and now he would reap the whirlwind. He stood up from his leather chair and began some breathing exercises to stave off his asthma. Just then, a knock at the door made him jump, and Chantal came in bearing a box of cupcakes.

"Michael, I thought you'd had a bit of a carry-on with that man, so I went round to the bakery and got us all some cakes. They're lovely, all fancy icing and sprinkles! I've got tea brewing in the staff room too," she trilled in her fairy-like manner.

He sighed and sank back down into the chair. "Chantal, you're a mind-reader as well as a fantastic nurse, one day you'll make someone a great wife," he grinned, picking out a cake with mint coloured frosting and little iced gems.

"Oh, don't be silly, I've not got time for boyfriends, let alone getting married! Anyway, I love my job and I'm not going anywhere soon!" Chantal assured.

He looked at her again, as ever her natural blonde hair was braided neatly around her head with tiny floral hair pins holding it in place. She had just enough make up on to look smart, and her white uniform was pressed and clean. "I think, that when the right man comes along, he'll sweep you off your feet and nursing will be the last thing on your mind!"

"No, I'd miss my job. Seriously. I _am_ a romantic, but I'm not daft, there are few if any guys who exist that would match up to my imagination, so I'm happy to get satisfaction out of my job, which I worked so hard to get into and get good at, rather than be disappointed and heartbroken by reality!" as she said the words, Michael could see her looking wistfully into the air. He wondered what her dream man consisted of.

"Ok, never mind. Now, I want you to come in and shut the door, I think I can trust you, but I just have to tell someone properly about what is going on, and what that man Richard Brook is doing to me… and to this clinic," he began, realising that what was about to be said could not be unsaid.

"Oh? That sounds ominous, are you sure you wouldn't rather tell Laurence?"

"No, he would get really stressed and upset. He manages himself fine if I run the business and let him get on with work."

"It's ok, I know he has Asperger's, my brother's got it."

He stared at her. Perhaps this explained her swan-like ability to cope serenely with everything? "Well, you know then, if I let him keep to his routine, he's happy."

A few moments later, with the door shut and blinds pulled on the glass, a signal to Agnes that he should not be disturbed, Michael and Chantal were sitting on the smart leather sofa in the far corner of the office. He explained about the true nature of the financial mess the clinic and he were in, and how Richard Brook had appeared just when things were going down the tubes.

"If it's money he wants, then he's not going to get it, but I suspect for some reason, unknown to me, he wants to destroy the reputation of the clinic. He certainly seems to think he can induce certain authorities into shutting us down. I … have an acquaintance who is supposed to help me, only I don't know that I trust her very much, but it's a case of the lesser of two evils. Chantal, I've been a very stupid man, and I'm worried that I won't be able to stop Richard Brook from ruining everything here, and it will affect all of us, not just me and Laurence, but you, the other two nurses, Agnes, and the business manager, even though he's self-employed, he's one of our contractors. So you might understand now why I'm all over the place. The only place I feel safe is in the operating theatre," Michael told her.

"Oh dear, poor you, carrying all this by yourself!" she exclaimed, clapping his lower arm. "Well, I'm glad you've told me, and I'm not going to say a word to anyone unless you want me to. I do think you should just go to the police, especially if you've nothing to hide, and I wouldn't believe you were ever capable of doing wrong, you're a doctor, you care about people. What you did for Nisha was so kind, so decent. This Richard Brook sounds like he's got something wrong in the head, if he can't see that you and Laurence are the most decent doctors I've ever come across, then _he's_ the sick one."

"Thanks, Chantal, you're an asset to us too, if Alanna leaves, I would have no hesitation in promoting you to senior nurse. I don't know about speaking to the police, not yet… I really should find some money to ensure our electric doesn't get cut off at the end of this week!" Michael sighed again.

"Aw, see? You're a sweetheart. Anyway, Laurence will be wanting me to help him write up his notes on his procedure from today, he likes to make sure that the documents are set up correctly. They always are, but as you say, it's his little routine, and because I helped him on the first day he got the laptop when Agnes wouldn't, he just associates me with feeling good, as in, he's in control. So, please, Michael, think about going to the police, and yes, speak to Southern Electric, that's a _must_!" Chantal jumped to her feet. "I'll take Laurence a cupcake too, make sure he doesn't feel left out." She was gone without a further word.

Lestrade was in the police mortuary with Dr Craven. He had begun working on Kitty Riley about 11pm the previous night and was just completing the post mortem. To Lestrade's relief, most of the vital gore had passed before he entered. The pathologist had just put a clean sheet over the lower part of Kitty's body as he stopped beside the operating table.

"Ah ha, come to see the nearly-headless woman, eh?" Dr Craven's black humour was known to all at the Met. It was his way of putting weak-stomached police personnel at their ease.

"Bored waiting for DNA results. I'm led to believe that this and the death of Kate Burrell are by the same person," Lestrade said gloomily.

"Mm, you will have a wait. Anyway, let me show you the x-rays here," Craven began, turning to a lightbox on the wall which illuminated two sheets of x-ray images. He flicked his small laser pointer out of his pocket from under his scrubs and pointed the beam at the very visible fractures in the first image which showed the subject face-on. "Can't really miss it, the C2 and C3 bones, that is, the cervical vertebrae are snapped in half, which strangely enough are the same injuries you are likely to find on the victim of a hanging. The muscles, which protect these bones, the trapezius and sternocleidomastoid were torn on the corpse. In fact, the trauma to the neck was so severe, that the bone fragment which was protruding below the ear was actually the victim's mandible, the jawbone, which had cracked from the pressure. Your killer would have been drenched in blood," Craven explained.

"Uh, thanks for the… er, detailed explanation. So, our guy has got a thing about breaking necks?"

"If all your evidence collates to show the same person carried out both murders, then yes, I would say so. I asked Molly to come in and do Kate's post mortem. She's in the other theatre. You could check with her just now," Craven gestured towards the swing door which separated the two operating theatres in the Met's basement.

"Oh, I didn't realise… ah, definitely need to talk to her, thanks Doc!" Lestrade felt a little cheered, realising he could compare injuries immediately, and that Molly Hooper would actually talk to him in human language, rather than in pathology-speak as Craven did.

Entering the other room, it was dark, apart from the two large moveable spotlights over the body of Kate Burrell. Again, her modesty had been covered. Molly was very diligently stitching up the incisions she'd made to check the organs as Lestrade approached. Hearing the squeak of his trainers on the floor, she looked up.

"Hello, Inspector, I thought it was you," she said, smiling.

"Yeah, was in next door with Dr Craven, not a pretty sight, that journalist. She might have been an annoying hack, but I wouldn't have wished that on her," Lestrade commented. "What about this one? You know it's Irene Adler's personal assistant, don't you?"

"I worked that out when I saw the address. This was definitely not a suicide hanging, I think Anderson passed on to you that she had defence-type wounds around her neck where the stocking was tied?" Lestrade nodded, leaning over to look as Molly pointed to the weals just under Kate's jaw. "And the neck was broken, well, the spinal bones. Classic injuries for a judicial hanging, so the person who did this knew what they were doing. Most murderers who make their victims look as if they've hanged themselves don't realise that the jerk of pulling a chair away might not be enough to break the neck, so the person ends up strangling to death. Looking at her other injuries, she must have been suspended from a height above that of a standard ceiling, as you would have found in that area of London," Molly was looking into Lestrade's face, trying to judge his thoughts, and whether he was listening to her or not. "I heard you tried to revive her after you and D.C. Western got her down. That was a nice thing to do."

He focused on her, "Just my duty. And Irene, kinda felt sorry for her, she was a wreck. I hate seeing women cry."

"Molly, … er, there is some suspicion that the identity of the killer may be Jim Moriarty. Is that possible?" he asked, knowing she'd been duped into believing that the arch villain was an IT technician at St Bart's, using her to spy on Sherlock Holmes.

Her cheeks coloured, "I really don't think so, Greg. I know I've fudged what happened about Mycroft's men down at the St Bart's mortuary, but he _is_ dead. Moriarty I mean. I went to the post mortem, I had no choice, Mycroft insisted I was there. It was pretty horrible. Reminded me of a Victorian anatomy lesson. He was positively _crowing_ over the corpse. If there is someone else as crazy as him, then you should be worried. Mycroft reckons London and the world is 'purged' now Moriarty's out of the way," Molly's brown eyes were wide with emotion as she described the scene.

"Ok. Dunno what this DNA result will tell us then. Poor kid, she really had nothing to do with this," Lestrade commented, and in an uncharacteristic moment, stroked Kate's now lifeless hair. "Another thing, can I expect a Lazarus-style resurrection from your other boyfriend?"

Molly looked at him, shocked and a little annoyed. She theorised he was trying to establish his masculinity after allowing her to see his softer side. "Sherlock Holmes was never my boyfriend!"

"Sorry. You liked him though."

She looked at him as if to say '_what do you think_?'

"Is he still in the land of the living?"

"I… can't tell you. And don't ask Mycroft, he won't tell you either. I had to sign a bit of the Official Secrets Act today when I got dragged over to Thames House, so, I'm sorry, I can't say, or hint, or anything. What happened on the roof… I knew it was coming, that's all. Please, Greg, don't mention this again, especially not in front of your colleagues," she pleaded.

Lestrade lifted up his hands in protest, "Oh no, don't worry… I won't, it's ok. I'm sure if it's in my interests to know, I'll get a call from Holmes senior at some point. Well, I'll leave you to finish up. I'm going to go and pester Forensics again, then I'm going over to Scenes to pester them!"

He shuffled off back through the swing doors. Molly sighed with relief. She wasn't sure she could cope with this, some secrets were not worth the stress.

**Chapter 6**

"Simon Brogden please, tell him it's Dr Morton," Michael said to the receptionist at the other end of the line.

A few moments later a serious voice replied, "Michael, Simon here, what's up?" the clinic's business manager said.

"I think we've had a minor miracle… I just called Southern Electric about our overdue bills, they said the account has been paid off, do you know anything about this?" Michael asked, having just got off the phone from the electricity company and logged in to their online view of the account to find that the bill was now indeed zero pounds.

"No. None of you suddenly have a windfall?" Simon suggested.

"Not that I know…" the cogs turned, _ah, Scarlet Ribbon_, "Er, well, I'm really not sure. Could you find out? I've been all over the place lately, maybe there's something I forgot."

"Will do, I'll call you right back," Simon told him.

Michael put the receiver back down on the phone which sat at the edge of his desk and peered out of the back window. The weather had turned rather curious; the sun was shining brightly but large flakes of snow were whirling around in the sky and sticking to pavements, bushes in the car park, trees along the street. Typical British weather, he surmised. He was finding it very hard to believe that Scarlet Ribbon would help him after the craziness of the previous day. As Jenny Summers she was known as a successful stable owner in both Cornwall and Stoneleigh in Warwickshire. Her trainers were some of the best in the racing scene and as well as her own horses, she hosted some of the current top racers in Britain and Ireland. As Scarlet Ribbon, Michael only knew the name as a newspaper rumour which had started after an audacious robbery in the early 1990s, when a white Porsche 911 was spotted outside the building, with a curious spray-painted logo of a rose and red ribbon on the bonnet. He was not to know the name had been bestowed on Jenny many years previously by a young man from Liverpool who turned out to be an equally clever and successful thief. 'Scarlet Ribbon'; it was an internet legend too, a classy lady who stole the jewels of the rich, arrogant and corrupt. The tabloids loved her, making suggestions that most people were not sorry for her targets. They however turned viciously on the hacks who had made their positions untenable, but the stories persisted and she was never identified or caught until this most recent incident. The infamous car had been involved in an accident, forced off the road by the police, and the driver sustaining what could have been a fatal injury had not the constable at the wheel of the patrol car not saved her life. Of course, the reporters soon recognised stable owner Jenny Summers as the driver, and speculated wildly. Her lawyer had made a statement to the press that Miss Summers had no connection to these flimsy accusations, and he would be pursuing the police for dangerous driving, if not attempted murder. The words had caused shockwaves through the Met; fearing secrets would be revealed, senior management had shut down all enquiries into Jenny's private life and disciplined the police driver, stating he was extremely contrite and hoped that his actions proved he had no malicious intent in crashing into the back of Jenny's car.

But Irene Adler had been the key; she was unrepentant about her 'personal services', and having seen the two together, he _knew_ that the hacks had been right all along. Then again, having met Irene and seen the state she had been in over Kate's death, he felt quite sorry for her. Scarlet was a different matter, she seemingly had not one chink in her armour. Her accident had given her a perfect excuse to keep the police out of her way, and apart from the obvious annoyance she was displaying about her scar, Scarlet was totally unruffled by the whole affair.

Simon rang back within ten minutes, "The account was cleared by a bank transfer from a company called _St Austell Holdings_, registered to a Mrs Martina Summers of St Austell, Cornwall. Companies' House records it as an investment company. Care to explain?"

Michael gulped, _she'd done it_! "Oh… yes, years ago I bought some land in Cornwall for a holiday home. That's the company that liaised with the developers, and they also manage any income from the property. I didn't think they would be able to help, but er, they must have after all." He was relieved he'd had time to create a story. Simon seemed to accept this without much question. _How easy is it to lie?_ He had already lied his way into Scarlet's house, and now he was fibbing to his business manager.

"Ok, but I'd be wary of trying to dig the clinic out of a hole with your own money. Good news is that I've got a place at a trade fair in Colorado next month. You know they're batty about plastics over there, so it should generate some custom from ex-pats if anything. Cross your fingers I find some vain oil tycoons who want to come and 'do' England while they get cheaper but professional care right here with us!" Simon was suddenly in marketing mode. He was an expert and did not mess about.

"Good, yes, very good. At least we've staved off the threat of a power cut for a quarter, dare I ask what else is outstanding, apart from last month's wage bill?" Michael asked tentatively.

"Council tax, bills to various instrument companies, but fortunately the pharmaceutical bills are up to date. Maybe you should buy a lottery ticket after your 'minor miracle'?" Simon suggested, a rare cheery tone creeping into his voice.

"Ok, give me the complete list via email and I'll see what we feasibly can pay," Michael said, gloomily.

"Sure, but you'll have to be quick, I'm getting a lot of snippy emails from people!" Simon warned.

Michael went down to the basement store; here all their records were backed up on computer storage units. There was a terminal at which he could access the material. The basement was temperature controlled, so was quite cool compared with the heated main floor. The only source of natural light was a strip of narrow toughened windows at the top of the walls. He flicked on the light switch and the LED strips across the ceiling and around the walls illuminated in a cool blue haze like the headlamps of a high performance car. He sat down at the computer terminal and logged in.

Scrolling through the many names he checked any he wasn't sure of on the internet via his mobile phone. Nothing. No scandal, just ordinary well-off people who either through necessity or vanity wanted something done to their bodies. He then started looking for cases his partner had dealt with, beginning to fear that Laurence may inadvertently have treated someone with a murky past. _Hang on, Laurence can spot dodgy people a mile off, if he doesn't like somebody, he'll give them short shrift! _"What am I thinking? I'm doubting an excellent surgeon and a good friend!" he said aloud to the screen. Then he thought again about Richard Brook's weird comment about the police. Would Laurence, or Alanna have offered their help to a police case? Alanna might have, but only because she was fairly ambitious and had made it clear recently she was looking to move on. Laurence would only have done something if someone he utterly trusted had asked him. He logged out of the terminal and left the basement, locking it behind him. He knew Laurence was in theatre with a rhinoplasty, so there was just time to go and have a quick look in his office, remembering that there were pictures on the walls of his fellow students from medical school. He had been in forensics before, so it was not outside the realms of possibility that someone with whom he'd studied was now employed by the police and had asked for his help.

Upstairs, Laurence's office was on the left as Michael exited from the basement steps. He pushed the handle down and entered. As he guessed, there were two totally uniform lines of photographs in identically-sized frames along the left wall. Michael looked at them, recognising Laurence's tall, skinny frame in each. He seemed to be standing stiffly in each one apart from the last on the top row, there, Laurence was sitting at a table, either side of him sat two women, and behind him stood a young man. Michael peered closer over his spectacles and read the neat, handwritten label on the mount inside the frame. '_Final_ _Forensics Class 1994. The Geeks – me, Molly, Daz and Elsa_'.

Laurence looked totally at ease in this image; these students were his close friends. Michael was a good bit older than Laurence and had met him in the hospital where they both worked. He was getting disillusioned and he recognised Laurence's Asperger's condition, despite the fact the promising surgeon had a strong grip on it. He had confided in Michael then that there were only a few people who really understood. Chantal would later be another. So, these 'geeks' were obviously students who had been sympathetic or very open to Laurence all those years ago. He did not recognise the young man, he guessed was 'Daz' or the woman on the right of Laurence, who had a spiky haircut with bright blue highlights, making her look like an exotic bird, but the brunette on the left, her face seemed very familiar. Did he know anyone in forensics or pathology called Molly? The simple thing would be to have a trawl through the alumni web site of Laurence's medical school and check. Michael returned quickly to his own office and opened his laptop which was on his desk.

The University of London's medical school had a good reputation for producing graduates who went on to become pathologists and scenes of crime investigators. The alumni pages were easy to access, and he soon found the one for Laurence's graduation year. Some graduates' profiles were more extensive than others, and only a few had photographs, as some had put up the logos of their new institutions instead. _Ah ha, Molly Hooper_. He clicked on the name and to his delight there was a picture of the same girl, her hairstyle unchanged, dressed in a lab coat.

He read quietly to himself; '_Dr Molly Hooper graduated from St George's, UoL in 1995; she then trained as a pathologist while working at St. Bartholomew's Hospital and was licenced by the Home Office as a forensic pathologist after receiving her diploma from the Royal College of Pathologists in 1999. She is now employed by the Metropolitan Police and is based in London._' And she was at university with Laurence Mellifer. He looked quickly at his colleague's profile, it confirmed that although he had initially been interested in following a career in pathology, he had specialised in plastic surgery after discovering an aptitude at the Royal Free Hospital, London. _Yeah, after I saw him grafting skin between two rats in the lab and making a clean job of it!_ 'Mr Mellifer is now working in the private sector at Carisbrooke Clinic in Kensington with the well-known senior plastics surgeon, Mr Michael Morton.' _Yep, but doctor always sounds better, surgeon or not!_ He grinned. So, has Molly been in touch with Laurence recently? Michael wondered how he would ask without causing Laurence to be defensive. That would have to wait, he realised, as it was noon and he was hungry.

Scarlet Ribbon was enjoying an indulgent selection of mini desserts at the spa. They had a particularly amazing team of chefs there and she passed on her compliments after licking the last of the dark chocolate off the spoon. There was a stir as people started to notice the huge flakes of snow falling outside and quickly covering the spa's grounds. Scarlet was not overly concerned. She took her tablet computer out of her bag and checked her emails. A message had appeared from Edward Raven, terse as ever, '_No Richard Brook born in Richmond, checking other London registrars before casting the net wider.'_

Uh-huh, so even more likely that this man was really someone else, but hopefully not that evil Irish schemer. She wondered if Michael had checked with his electricity supplier yet. It was an investment, a sort of pre-payment for him helping Rafe. She called Rafe's number, hoping he was more cheerful this morning.

"Rafe, sweetie, it's Scarlet here, life looking any rosier this morning?" she trilled.

"No. Nancy's coming around here soon, I don't know what she wants. When is your doctor chap going to get started? I can't bear much more. And look, I should have told you, there _is_ someone who needs to know, someone I really do care about!" Rafe retorted, sounding gloomier than ever.

"Really? You actually have a proper girlfriend? Wow, that must be serious, tell your auntie Scarlet all about her!" she grinned, knowing Rafe had spent so much of his life conning older women into parting with their cash, so it was a real surprise to hear he had met someone.

Rafe sighed, "Oh dear, she's everything I ever dreamed of but was scared to hope for!"

"Well, who is she, what does she do?"

"She's a ballet dancer, well, training to be one, hoping to get a job at Sadler's Wells. Her name is Meredith Angelus, her father was a Swiss national, and she was brought up there until age 12 when she went to boarding school for dramatic arts. Her mother died when she was just two, but her father's sister who was a nun, helped look after her. I mean, I thought it sounded like a Mills & Boon novel already, but it's all true, I checked. I only learned all of this very recently. When I went to your sister's place, it was because I'd been in hospital, I er… was so low, I tried to kill myself. Silly really, I'm too much of a coward to go all the way with it, but I was blazing drunk, parked the Morgan outside the lane next to the theatre that my father and uncle owned. I didn't even know it was still in the family till Charles Henry did a complete inventory of the whole Ravenhurst estate. Anyway, it's tiny, it's on the South Bank. I was fumbling with the keys to the side door when I found it was open. Didn't think it was odd at the time. I could hear music, the overture from _Swan Lake_, really began to think I was losing my mind. I can remember blundering into the back stalls and sitting down. I… had a clasp knife, the one I hide in the car. I was so full of alcohol, I managed to cut a huge long scar up my left arm, probably hit some of the veins, as the blood started pulsing out at a frightening rate… frightening if I'd been sober. It started to feel strangely pleasant after a few minutes, and I was aware of the music again. I looked over at the stage, and swore I saw a swan dancing. Only it wasn't … it was a girl, in the Swan Princess' costume. She was amazing. Now you know I'm a fan of the ballet, so this was like a surreal show just for me. When she finished, I heard myself yelling 'Bravo! Encore!" That's when she noticed me. If it hadn't been for Meredith, I would have bled to death. She told me later that I was white as a ghost and shaking. In hospital she made sure that they didn't send a shrink to annoy me, and once I was semi-human again, we talked. For hours. I fell head over heels. She took me to Ross-shire but couldn't stay. Said once I was better to contact her. Oh Scarlet, Meredith _is_, she is the one, my white swan. You've got to help me, really, please!" he rambled.

"Well, sounds like she did you a favour. I'll talk to my doctor friend tonight, and I promise we'll come visit you tomorrow. Just don't let that other woman scare you. Can you get your cousin to be there?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, good idea, I'll call him now. Sorry for being a pain, it's just, I can't take it, I really can't, I never ever thought anything would come back to bite me like that. I should have learned!" Rafe moaned.

"Alright, no use fretting now over your mistakes. Get that scary cousin of yours to back you up and I'll see you in the morning!" Scarlet ordered.

Molly Hooper was sitting in Postman's Park opposite St Bart's; it was a former churchyard which contained a curious Victorian memorial 'to self-sacrifice'. Molly often would read the ceramic plaques which were still being added to, and feel tears spring to her eyes at the tragic little tales of young children who had tried to rescue baby siblings from drowning, railway workers saving would-be suicides from the track, and many others. Right now she couldn't look at anything. She was huddled up in the far corner on the bench which was an integral part of the memorial, drinking coffee from a reinforced paper cup.

She was scared to go home. _If only I knew where he was, if he was still here, it's not fair, Mycroft shouldn't have dragged me into it afterwards!_ Now there was a real possibility that the body the senior security services officer crowed over was _not_ Jim Moriarty. _How can it be? I slept with the guy, I know what he looks like! Twins, identical twins is the only answer_, _no other reason why the DNA matched a dead man!_ Molly was seized by a sudden impulse, got up and ran for St Paul's tube station. Quarter of an hour later, she changed at Notting Hill Gate for Kensal Green. The snow was coming down thickly and silently as she entered Kensal Green Cemetery near Ladbroke Grove. It wasn't hard to find the shiny black marble headstone by the big yew tree. She crouched in front of it. "You are such a nuisance, Sherlock Holmes! You _knew_ how I felt about you, well, you didn't, until you made a fool of me about Jim. Now it turns out he was Moriarty all along! Why did you burden me with this? I'm the last person you should have asked! You knew I'd do it. I hate you, Sherlock, I hate you!" Molly snapped. She suddenly realised that someone might have heard her rant and got to her feet.

"I hope you've not been telling tales out of school, Dr Hooper," the grim voice made Molly jump. She spun round. Tall, dark suited and attired in a thick cashmere coat, shiny leather shoes covered in snow, holding an umbrella in a leather-gloved hand, it could only be one person.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?"

"Visiting my brother's grave, as it appears you are."

"So you know? About Moriarty?" she asked quickly, stepping back from him.

"Your friend Lestrade called my office to request a DNA sample for comparison. Well, I was extremely surprised to say the least. You and I both saw the unfortunate Mr Moriarty in the depths of Thames House a week ago, so to find there was a chance that DNA found at a crime scene involving the death of the very reporter who slandered my brother might match _his_, was most disturbing. I agreed to his request. I believe you and the other pathologist, Dr Carrick Craven were present at Scotland Yard's forensics laboratory to see the results of the comparison, yes?"

"Greg asked me to come. He knew I was involved. He asked me earlier what had happened after the bodies were removed from St. Bart's, I _had_ to tell him! But I didn't tell him what I did, honestly!" Molly stuttered.

"Mm, I can see why. So, what was the result of the test?" Mycroft's expression was barely visible under the umbrella, but Molly could hear the menace in his voice.

"You know! You know already. It was a direct match. We know he's dead, so he has a twin somewhere that nobody knew about, and I think it's Richard Brook!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, and I'm extremely disappointed in my colleagues for not picking this up. My brother on the other hand, may not have met him, as I believe the person _he_ deceived was the journalist, Kitty Riley. Now it concerns me, who killed Kitty and who was on the slab?" Mycroft stated grimly.

"Oh don't start! I'm scared enough! If it is Jim, he'll come after me, he'll know what I did!"

"If it's Brook, you're in the clear."

"I doubt it! They were twin brothers, they would _know_ everything!"

"You're forgetting. James Moriarty has an associate, his closest bosom pal, the disgustingly vain Sebastian Moran, supposedly a colonel in the French army! If anyone could manipulate this situation under Moriarty's nose and ours, it would have been him. I have no doubts that Moriarty knew of Brook's existence, but _not_ that they were brothers. Moran would have kept them apart. I have agents on the ground seeking Moran as of today," Mycroft replied.

Molly gaped at him. The snow whirled around them like a secretive cloak for their frenzied discussions. "Mycroft, I'm a police pathologist, that's all, not a spy, _please_, keep me out of this!"

"No, you are involved. The moment you agreed to help my brother you were involved. Any sign of Brook, you tell me. I will give you my card, it has my private office and mobile numbers. Keep in touch," he said gravely. He held out the card to her, and Molly snatched it as if it was infectious. Mycroft turned on his heel and was about to walk away when he threw her a glance over his shoulder, "He hasn't been in touch, as he?"

"Who? Sherlock? Don't be stupid. I can see this was all you, he wasn't bothered about me, I bet you told him I would be a soft touch! Just … stay away from me!" Molly shrieked, wanting desperately to burst into tears.

Mycroft turned and continued walking away. He heard Molly sob loudly. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. Slipping it out into his hand, he looked at the message. '_Leave her alone. SH'_.

"Er, Dr Morton, I know you get mad at me for going on Twitter at work, but you really, really should see this!" Agnes, the clinic's receptionist poked her head around the door of Michael's office just as he was sitting down again after completing a procedure to repair a dog bite to a young boy's face.

"What?" he asked, puzzled. He knew Agnes was celebrity-obsessed. She and Chantal were as bad as each other when it came to name-dropping about their favourite actors and sports personalities.

Agnes trotted over to the desk on her impossibly high magenta pink heels, and showed him her smart-phone. He took it and saw the text she referred to. R-Brook _Who is this man? Spotted exiting Kensington Clinic last week? Odd?_ #_troublemaker_ #_CarisbrookeClinic_ there was a link attached to the message, and clicking the preview button, Michael saw to his horror that it was the very photograph Richard Brook had shown him a few hours ago in this very room.

"Now, that's the little scumbag you said is a car thief, how the hell did this guy get the photo? He's the man who was in here this morning, right?" Agnes asked.

"Yeah, that's right. Come on, you're the tabloid fan, who is Richard Brook?" Michael asked, looking into Agnes' grey eyes.

"Um, I looked him up on the web, he's an actor, and he's the one who Kitty Riley interviewed for that article about Sherlock Holmes, claimed it was all a big stunt and that he'd been paid to play the part of an imaginary villain!" Agnes told him, "And what is he doing bothering us?"

"It's a long story. Is there anything else here?"

"Yup, I searched for the hashtag and there are a few people asking questions, somebody said 'are you a racist, why should a black kid being in Kensington be odd?' Ha ha, that made me smile, you always get them. But yeah, people are saying we're the clinic who treated the Indian girl, and this boy doesn't like like he's short of a tenner or two. Nothing bad yet, just Tweeters puzzling. I mean, there's nothing you can do yet, and it's not like we treated him. What have we done to annoy this guy Brook?" Agnes asked, pulling straight her grey pencil skirt which barely skimmed her knees.

"Nothing. Nothing I know of. For once, I'll let you keep an eye on this, but don't let it distract you from speaking to patients. If you get _any_ press phone calls, refer them to Simon Brogden, he knows how to deal with journalists," Michael told her.

"Ok, will do, Boss!" Agnes trilled, taking back her phone from him and tripping back to the front desk.

_Where does he get off? The man is a double-murderer according to Irene Adler, and he's walking around scott-free?_ He realised he could not talk to the police, as he was not supposed to know about Kitty Riley or Kate Burrell. What a mess. He hoped that Scarlet Ribbon had been able to dig up something concrete on the mysterious Mr Brook, who appeared to also be a master manipulator of the social media. He hadn't actually said anything out of order, just planted the seeds of doubt. It was on such tiny incidents as these that scandals broke.

**Chapter 7**

Scarlet had bought herself a new winter coat, full-length, camel coloured with a fluffy tawny collar of faux fur. It matched well with her brown leather high heeled boots. Completing the effect with a furry pillbox hat and brown leather gloves, she felt she looked just the part to be Jenny Summers again. Strolling nonchalantly into Carisbrooke Clinic at 5pm, she hoped it would be easy to see Michael.

The girl on the desk, whom she presumed to be the celeb-magazine fan, Agnes, looked up at her. "Oh, good afternoon, Miss Summers, did you want to see Dr Morton?" she asked politely.

"Yes I did, thank you, hoping he can bring forward my appointment a bit!" Scarlet replied sweetly.

"Well, he should be in, he isn't scheduled to have any more procedures today, I'll just ring him," Agnes said, and picked up the phone. Scarlet noticed that her short, manicured nails were alternate shades of magenta and pastel pink. "Dr Morton? It's Miss Jenny Summers here, she'd like to have a quick word about her appointment?"

Agnes nodded and then looked back at Scarlet, "He says just to come into his office, it's the first on the left going into the corridor, ok?" Scarlet smiled and thanked her.

When she pushed open the door of Michael's office, he was just putting his jacket on. She recalled he had been wearing the same charcoal grey suit in the morning with a dark blue shirt. _Yes, he's still cute_, she mused, beaming as he waved his hand, motioning her to enter.

"You look slightly more alive than you were at 8am, any improvement on your day?" she asked, sitting down on the chair in front of the desk.

"Well, somebody paid our electricity bill. Apparently I have a benefactor," he said, peering over his glasses at her.

"I'm not Miss Havisham, but I bet I have her money! Anything else?"

"Richard Brook has started a nasty little speculation on Twitter about the clinic by posting a photo of that young man, we still have a pile of bills to pay, most notably the wages and the council tax, and I've just discovered that my business partner was a friend of and fellow student with Molly Hooper, who is a police pathologist with the Met. Heard of her?" Michael asked.

"Irene's mentioned her, as did Jean East's cousin, Allan, who is a mortuary technician at St. Bart's. She seems to be the one who knows about the deaths of Moriarty and Holmes. Why should your colleague being a friend of hers make a difference?" Scarlet puzzled.

Michael walked around to the front of the desk and leaned close "Because, Laurence started out his F1 round in forensics before his Asperger's got the better of him, both were at St. Bart's for a few months, and then Laurence transferred to the Royal Free where he and I met. Now, think about it, if you're going to fake a death, and you need people to see a body close up, you need a face. Maybe I'm starting to read too many adventure novels, but what if… what if Molly Hooper called on her old friend, who has a higher reputation than me for plastics? His obsession with detail means he does everything to the nth degree of perfection. What if she had access to the body of an unidentified vagrant who was the same height and build as this Sherlock Holmes? How easy would it be for Laurence to give the man the latter's face?"

Scarlet's eyes brightened, Allan had said there were two bodies, and that there had been two others there earlier, 'John Does' as he called them. Making up that excuse about MI5 means they could spirit away the tramp made up as Holmes, and no-one would notice they were a body short. "And why would you have come to this oddball conclusion?" She said, keeping back her knowledge for the moment.

"Because as I told you earlier, Richard Brook made a funny comment about 'helping the police'. It definitely wasn't me, but knowing that Laurence and Molly go way back, it is entirely possible he would have done this for her, and managed to not tell me. He would have convinced himself that this was a good secret, and that he didn't need to say anything. He may be a brilliant surgeon, but his personality is affected by his condition, even though most of the time he copes with it. If Brook cottoned on to this fact, he would destroy him. Laurence can't cope with harassing behaviour," Michael whispered.

She could see the intense concern in his blue eyes. She told him about Allan's revelation. Michael straightened up and leaned heavily on his desk. "I don't know if your colleague was the one involved, but I've not thought of a more plausible explanation. According to Irene, Sherlock was used by his brother Mycroft, the one who's in MI5, to trap Moriarty once and for all. Whatever passes between brothers, blood will always be thicker than water, as I said. Holmes Snr _had_ to find a way to save his brother while at the same time making it look to the world that he was dead. It's so simple, it's positively inspired."

"What the hell have we got into here? _Why_ didn't Laurence tell me? Could Brook be planning to kill off everyone who might know about Moriarty's death? If they're so alike, then is he the type of criminal who would want to take over his double's empire?" Michael asked, feeling his breath shorten again.

Scarlet reached her gloved hand out and placed it over his, "Sweetheart, I think you've suffered enough today. You are safe with me, Brook/Moriarty and all the rest of that bunch don't know me from Eve, so come on, I'm taking you out for the evening, for some luxury, all on me," she cooed. Michael put his other hand across hers.

"You've already stolen my inhibitions with your naughty photographs, do you want to steal my heart as well?" he sighed.

"Only if you want me to."

_Love is the drug_, so said Bryan Ferry in his pop hit. Michael sighed and looked at the ceiling. "I'm going to regret this, I'm certain, but today I'm past caring. Yes, please, take me out!"

Scarlet was determined to show Michael exactly how the rich could live; her first port of call – she had hired a taxi for the evening – was Westfield shopping mall. As a workaholic doctor, Michael was never too bothered about clothes, but he was delighted and amazed at the choice of what he would have termed 'smart casual' wear in the designer Village area of the mall. They were in the men's shirt retailer, T.M. Lewin; Michael was browsing through all the colours and seized upon a deep, royal purple cotton shirt.

"Wow, I've always wanted a shirt this colour, never quite had the guts to wear one!"

"Mm, the colour of _lust_. Right, we're having that then," Scarlet said. "Now, trousers and a jacket to match that, let's try _All Saints_," she continued.

"Woah, no! That's a young man's store! I can't go in there!"

"With me you can, just pretend you're a film star for the evening. Remember, I'm your benefactor!" she grinned, stroking his chin as she dashed over to the till before he changed his mind.

They crossed to Hawes and Curtis, where Scarlet teased Michael into choosing an outrageously red shirt with checked cuff and collar lining. Eventually they reached Louis Vuitton, another designer Michael admired, but had never taken the risk to enter. "I don't understand you, you've got a designer car, why can't you buy designer clothes?" Scarlet asked, as she looked through the jackets.

"Doctors don't need flash clothes. Well, this one doesn't. And Laurence wears sports clothes under his scrubs! We only ever wear good suits if we have to go to one of Simon's business meetings, or a trade fair. I'm afraid, I might have appeared greedy, but it was nothing to do with me, it was my business! This, this is a dream, a real high-life imagining," he told her, now realising that most of the stores in the Designer Village did not display prices on their items, and the tills were either at the back of the shop, or hidden behind a discrete partition. Money, for the seriously rich was a vulgar consideration!

Eventually, after sending him into Doc Barnet, the men's barbers which had their salon set up like 1950s America, Scarlet and Michael, now transformed by his new clothes, shave and haircut, headed back to the exit to find the taxi. Michael was agog when the taxi's next stop was Claridge's. Again, he protested that he couldn't go into such a prestigious place, but Scarlet ignored him. On the pavement, she kissed him full on the lips in front of the hotel's commissionaire, who she could see beaming out of the corner of her eye. Having established their 'look' as a flash professional couple, Scarlet took Michael's hand and strode into the Art Deco lobby of the famous establishment. She had already booked a table while she had been at the spa. Michael indulged in scallops, steak and a truly fabulous 'Death by Chocolate' dessert. Scarlet had her favourites, smoked salmon and venison, but drew the line at having more chocolate after her selection at the spa. Afterwards, sitting in the lounge with a bottle of champagne, they looked at each other. Scarlet sat diagonally opposite Michael, she in a Regency armchair, and he on the sofa of the same type.

"This is a bit like the one in my house," she smiled, stroking the silk fabric. "So, impressed as to what unspeakable riches can do for you?"

"Oh yeah, I couldn't fail to be. It's fabulous, but I wouldn't do it too often, that would take the shine off," he replied. He gulped down the contents of the crystal flute, as if anxious still.

"Are you still nervous of me?" she asked.

"I trust you marginally more than I did yesterday. Mind you, I'm the one who got myself in this mess, yet you look at me like you don't give a hoot about what I did!" he replied, pouring more of the champagne into his glass.

"I'm relaxed. And I know now I definitely have the measure of you. I choose my battles carefully, which is why I don't want to leap in and take on this lunatic Brook or Moriarty or whatever his real name is until I absolutely have to. Look, don't worry, all will be well!" Scarlet assured, reaching for his hand.

Michael, who had been deliberately dosing himself with champagne to shake off his constant concern that Brook was going to turn up and spoil his first night of fun in practically a lifetime, grabbed Scarlet's fingers and kissed them. "Come and sit beside me, if you're not scared then," he challenged.

Scarlet slid deftly across from the chair onto the sofa, her right thigh now close against his. She had been wearing immaculate designer Chinos under her new coat, and a scoop-necked sweater of gold yarn which sparkled with a bright gold filament thread through it. A honey-coloured muslin scarf tied around her neck hid her scar.

She laced her fingers through his and took a sip from the champagne glass in her other hand. "Hey, blue eyes, is this you trying to be flirty again?" Scarlet smirked.

Michael felt the warmth of her skin as he clasped her hand tightly. "I'm indulging a fancy. You think I'm the self-less, good doctor, but given half a chance, I am capable of extremes, as you saw yesterday. However, let me tell you about me as a medical student. I was a geek, just like Laurence, only in a different form. All I cared about was becoming a doctor, I wasn't interested in the usual booze-ups and pranks the rest of the gang played, but at the end of term, I always felt I couldn't stay to the balls and parties, as I had no-one to go with. I was secretly very envious of the guys for whom medicine was a breeze, and had all the looks at the same time! Women would coo over them like over-enthusiastic doves. I would just make my appearance, have one drink and disappear before they realised I was on my own. I would lie awake and dream of going to some exotic venue with a beautiful woman who only had eyes for me and imagine that the people there were watching and saying 'who's the handsome doctor? And isn't his partner beautiful? He must be really famous or something'. Maybe that's what I want everyone to think tonight, here, in a legendary venue, and imagine that I'm someone far grander than I am, just for _once._" He confided.

"I'd be happy to indulge your fancy, Michael," Scarlet smiled seductively.

He peered at her over his glasses again, wanting to drown in those curious violet pools that were her eyes. "Oh how I wish you could. But you'd be playing, you wouldn't mean it. I don't know I could take it… especially because I am becoming addicted to the sight of you. I get the sense you treat men mean to keep them keen, right?" he sighed.

Scarlet laughed. "Dear, dear Dr Morton, you poor man, please, don't fall for me, that would be most unwise. But don't get me wrong, I think you're attractive, talented, and most of all, sincere. I'm not sure _I_ could cope with someone who did genuinely like me!"

"Shall we conduct an experiment then? You see what it's like being admired by an ordinary male, who just happens to be your plastic surgeon, and I'll just fantasise you really are my dream girl, agreed?" Michael whispered, as close to her as he had been on the floor of her house the previous day.

"Mm, alright. Take it slowly, be a gentleman, and we'll compare results later," Scarlet grinned, genuinely surprised at his affection.

_And a gentleman never kisses a lady on the mouth in full view of everyone!_ Michael thought, and again, took up her hand and kissed her fingers again. Scarlet felt her skin prickle. _The fruit that is off-limits is always the most desirable_, _damn him, he'll have me falling for him in return next!_

"I'll tell you what I fancy, I know it's snowing, but why don't we go over to Westminster and walk along by County Hall? On a night like this less people will be out, we might have the place to ourselves!" Michael suggested. "Now you've bought me that lovely cashmere coat, I'm ready for the weather!"

And it was, as he predicted, empty. The snow had stopped, but little attempt had been made to clear it down by the river. The ground crunched beneath their feet as they walked slowly over the frozen surface. Scarlet had her arm around his. Yes, it was rather nice to have a man to trust, to relax with, she thought, inclining her head against his shoulder. She smirked to herself again, _and to think I was berating Irene earlier for falling in love with Sherlock Holmes? Oh dear, wait till she hears about this!_

Michael beamed at every occasional passer-by, imagining their brief thought, _jammy older man with attractive young redhead on his arm_. "Tell me something about Jenny Summers, about when she was a girl, before she became Scarlet Ribbon," he suddenly said.

"That was a sidewinder!" she exclaimed, looking up at him, "Let me think, let's sit down over there," she pointed to some abandoned bar chairs around a snow-covered table which were outside one of the establishments under County Hall.

Michael cleared the snow off the seats, and they sat together, Scarlet leaning against him, as he slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Along time ago, there was a girl called Jenny who loved horses. She ate, slept, drank and talked horses, despite the fact she was well aware her mother, a florist, could never have afforded to buy her one, let alone pay for her to have lessons. It was really hard for Mrs Summers being a widow, and with her son in the army, but she wanted her daughter to learn that dreams were only achieved through hard work, so encouraged her to find a way to get close to her favourite creature without spending any money. Jenny found out that a local stables in the countryside, up from her home in St Austell, Cornwall, which is so mild, palm trees grow in pots on the railway station platform, well, that the stables were taking on girls as stable maids who in return would get to learn to ride free of charge. Jenny jumped at the chance, and at 11 years old, started her first job. She loved it, she didn't care if the manure smelled horrible, she didn't mind mucking out, she positively adored grooming the horses there, because she knew, every 3rd Saturday, she would get a riding lesson from the stable owner, who was a retired woman jockey, one of few in the racing circuit at that time. The first time her new boss showed her how to mount a horse… well, a pony at that point, Jenny wasn't tall enough to ride a full-sized equine then, _but_ she managed to do it exactly right. _You must be a natural,_ _Mrs Friarton said, I think you're going to benefit from this, Jenny, I'll see that you do."_

Scarlet looked up at Michael. He realised that her eyes were glassy with emotion. "You really don't like remembering, do you?"

"No, because it reminds me I never knew my Dad."

Michael sighed and cuddled her close, "Let's get out of the cold. Are we going to yours or mine? Not that I'm going to try anything, just quicker to Holland Park than it is to Osterley," he suggested.

"Very well, we'll be civilised and talk art and architecture!" she exclaimed, as if throwing off her real self again.

"Ooh, now I don't know about paintings, but I do like buildings!"

"I know, I saw your Charles Rennie Mackintosh book," Scarlet observed.

Back at Holland Park, they stood by the window of the upstairs lounge, sipping more champagne, looking out onto the tennis courts behind the house as the snow began falling again. The world was silent; the spectral trees black against the buildings on the far side of the tennis club which in turn looked over onto Holland Park proper. A large rook sailed across the white expanse and landed on the ground. It stalked across the snow self-importantly, but just as suddenly took to the air again, spreading out its black wings, the feathery tips like so many fingers clawing through the sky.

"I love crows, they're so smart," Michael commented.

"You townie! That's a rook," Scarlet laughed.

"They're all corvids though! Just because you were brought up in the country!" he retorted in mock annoyance.

Scarlet wrapped her arm around his waist and drank the last of her champagne. "Mm, lovely. As is that gorgeous shirt, just my favourite colour!" she cooed, stroking his shoulder with her right hand.

"Oh ho, is that why you insisted on buying it? I forgot to say, I really like your outfit, especially the sparkly jersey, reminds me of Christmas," Michael said, reaching out his hand but not quite touching her.

"You really are a romantic, Michael," she said, stretching her hand up to stroke his cheek. "I always found it hard to believe that there were men who could really be sweet and nice. I would always get in first and dominate them before they had time to do anything. That's why Irene and I get on so well, we think the same!"

Michael put his hand over hers, stopping it from moving any further, "That's sad. You are two extremely beautiful women, why are you so cynical? When my Dad was alive, he always said to me that if I found the girl for me I should treat her like a queen, but if she treated me badly, I should withdraw gracefully. Never leave a bitter taste, he said. Yet you act as if we're all horrible misogynists! I'm not, I like womenkind, even though, yes, there are some pieces of work I get in the clinic and think, _you don't deserve to have these assets_, but then again, they are paying my wages, so I can't really complain," he added.

"Mm, sounds a sensible man, your Dad. But the likes of him and you are few and far between!"

"Maybe if women acted more like ladies, men would be more gentlemanly. That's exactly what I mean, we've got a 16 year old at the clinic who desperately wants to go from an A to a C bra size, because she wants to impress her boyfriend. That's horrible, that she would bow to such pressure, and more fool her parents, especially her father, who would encourage her! No, it's a messed up world! Anyway, to hell with that, it's boring. Your champers tastes better than the stuff they had in the hotel!" Michael replied, and suddenly took Scarlet in his arms and waltzed her around the room.

She laughed gleefully. They were both getting drunk. "I know, I know," she said, in the tone of an excited child, "Let's play _Twister_! I've got it in the sideboard there, haven't played in years!"

"Excellent suggestion!" Michael concurred.

Scarlet pulled away from him and went to the white painted ornate Gothic sideboard and opened one of the large doors on the front. Michael could see she actually had a few board games, but she handed him out the box of the familiar game that promised to tie its players in knots. They spread out the plastic mat with its distinctive coloured circles on the space under the window. Like stirred up children, they removed their shoes and Scarlet spun the plastic arrow on the little board which denoted the position and colour to take.

"Right, left foot red," she said.

"Uh, you do mean _left_ foot? You're confusing me!" Michael gasped.

"No, the bubbles are going to your head, dodo, left foot red!" Scarlet insisted. They moved into position.

Michael took his turn with the board, "Right hand, green!"

Very soon they were in a tangle, laughing uproariously and found it difficult to reach the circles on the mat. "If I have to move my feet again, I'll fall over, I promise you!" Scarlet commented shrilly. Michael stretched a free hand over to the board and spun the arrow.

"Ugh," he groaned as he looked at the result, "I better move first, it's right foot yellow. If I lift my foot off here… and, put it _under_ your leg, I can _just_ reach the yellow circle," he slurred, the champagne having fogged his brain completely.

"Oh come on, how am I supposed to move? The nearest yellow circle is underneath me! You did that _deliberately_, she accused mockingly." Scarlet tried to slide her right leg underneath herself, but as she tried to put her foot flat down, she lost her balance. Michael instinctively grabbed her around the waist and pulled her with him as he rolled onto his side.

"Gotcha! I win!" he laughed.

"Ooh, you cheat, I could have done that!" Scarlet told him. Their faces were close, only a breath between. "You were looking for an excuse to get close, right?" she cooed, ruffling his hair.

He nodded like a silly schoolboy, the exact same look he'd given her when she'd made that first flirty comment in his office two days previously. "I'm being the tease now!" Michael told her.

"Oh you are, Dr wanna do this, wanna do that!" Scarlet was grinning stupidly, her reserves drowned in the sparkling wine.

"The Doctor is only interested in your welfare, Ms Scarlet Ribbon," Michael's voice sounded husky.

"And I'm in need of a good doctor, a _very_ good one," Scarlet purred.

Somewhere in the back of Michael's brain a little voice reminded him _don't play with bad girls_. He just grinned at her and didn't move. "Argh, I can't… I can't!" he muttered.

Scarlet sighed, not in exasperation, but in regret that the fun had come to an end. Yet he'd proved it, he was a gentleman. "Don't worry sweetheart, I'm glad. If Irene ever finds out about this after I made a fool of her for falling head over heels with her dead detective, she'll rip me to shreds! But I'm not going to tell her, are you?"

"No, utterly no!" he said, insistently.

"Good, it'll be our secret. A good secret this time," and with that she gave him a very gentle kiss before he let go of her and they both scrambled to their feet.

He straightened his shirt, suddenly feeling very sober. Michael looked confused. "If you thought it could work, would you?" Scarlet asked him directly.

"But it couldn't, ever, I'm not a criminal. You're the fire I can't stop playing with, but I know I have to. If … if in a parallel universe, I might be that dangerous man you think you want, but I'm not, I'm a doctor in my mid-fifties whose business is in danger of going down the toilet. Forgive me, Scarlet, I can't be that other man. I can't be like Brook, not that I'd want to be!" he replied mournfully.

"I know," she said. "But it was nice, tonight, all this? Just a harmless escape from reality? And I don't want you to be dangerous, I actually prefer you being the cute, gawky medic, because you can't be deceived, not by me or anyone else for that matter. Honesty is a rare thing today, Michael, and in my world, almost unheard of. Look, I'll make some coffee, we can just sit and watch the snow if you want, no need to go anywhere," Scarlet offered.

"I'd like that, very much."

"Alright, turn up the gas fire and pull the settee angle-on so we can see the view at the same time."

When Scarlet returned from downstairs with two mugs of latte, Michael was stretched out on the terracotta coloured settee, his eyes closed. She put one mug on the little circular table by the armrest and took the other. She slipped onto the settee and positioned herself beside him. He opened his eyes and put his arm around her shoulders. "Snow… still falling," he said.

Yes, she thought, looking out at the slow, steady fall of snowflakes, and you're still a gentleman. No, she had to help him too; this Brook character could be allowed to destroy someone so fine.

**Chapter 8**

"Where's Mi- I mean, Dr Morton? His car's in the way of the pharmacy van, we need to move it!" Chantal exclaimed, poking her head around the door of Laurence Mellifer's office at the clinic.

"Not in yet, Nurse Hart. But it's ok, he keeps a spare set of keys in his top drawer, I'll get them," Laurence replied.

"Oh, it's ok, I'll get them," she replied, and headed over to Michael's office.

Laurence followed her, "You seen the state of the car park? I never thought about it on the bike, but it's at least two inches deep! I'll direct you," he said.

Outside, once Chantal had donned her boots and coat then climbed into the Aston Martin, Laurence stood at the rear of the car, judging the distance she would need to reverse before turning, as the white pharmacy van sat obediently waiting by the kerb. Chantal had secretly fantasised for ages about driving the long, sleek car, and was thrilled when the engine roared like a caged tiger.

"Just take it _slowly_, there's plenty room for you to come back to the right and turn," Laurence advised.

Chantal pressed the electric window control and stuck her head out; "Ok, Dr Mellifer, no problem!" She put the car in reverse gear, and was just about to take her foot off the brake, when she heard Laurence yell.

"Hold on, hold on, there's something funny here, get out a minute!"

Chantal put the gearstick back to neutral and got out, the engine still running. She had barely got to her feet when there was a huge explosion. The car disappeared in a ball of flame and Chantal felt herself flying through the air. When she dared open her eyes, she was lying on top of Laurence, who had his arms wrapped protectively around her head, his back on the snow-covered step. The driver of the pharmacy van rushed towards them.

"Hell's bells, move!" he screamed, guessing there had been a bomb under the car.

Chantal felt the man grab her hand, and she scrambled up as he pulled her to her feet. Laurence rolled onto his side and bounced up from his knees. The three of them ran inside. Agnes was gasping in shock in reception. "What the heck happened?" she exclaimed.

"The car blew up! Michael's car! Oh no, he's going to kill me!" Chantal shrieked.

"Wasn't your fault, darlin', looks like somebody put a bomb under it! Phone the fire brigade, girl!" the pharmacy man turned to Agnes, who grabbed the cordless receiver from the desk and pressed the '9' key three times, rapidly.

Alanna, Julie, the other junior nurse and Maurice, the anaesthetic technician came running into reception. "What on earth?" Alanna gasped.

"Dr Morton's car! I was just about to reverse it, and Dr Mellifer told me to get out, and it… it exploded!" Chantal gasped. She was shaking violently. Laurence put his arms around her.

"I saw something, black, plastic, sticking out from under the car. It wasn't there yesterday, I _knew_ it was something bad. People think I'm obsessive, but it appears this time I was for the best!" he said sharply. "Julie, go and make tea and bring some to Chantal immediately, it will help calm her down."

"No probs, Boss. Aggie, you not got _Rescue Remedy_ in your bag? That'll help!" Julie said as she dashed towards the staffroom.

Agnes had just got off the phone. She scrabbled in her vast shoulder bag that sat at her feet and found the bottle of herbal medicine. She came from behind the desk. Agnes unscrewed the lid, drew some of the liquid into the dropper and gave it to Chantal. Her hand shook so much that Agnes had to take hold of her wrist as she squeezed the contents into her mouth.

"The only reason that works is because the liquid suspension it's in is grape alcohol!" Alanna commented dismissively.

The howl of sirens soon alerted them to the presence of the emergency services. Julie and Agnes helped Chantal to the soft bench seat in the waiting area as Laurence went outside. The firemen had rapidly deployed a hose and were dousing the car in a foamy substance. One of them, followed by a policeman in uniform, came up to Laurence.

"You in charge here?" he asked, pushing up the plastic visor on his yellow helmet.

"Half, my fellow doctor isn't here yet, but it's his car!" Laurence informed him, clasping his hands tight over alternate arms as the shock started to affect him. The black smoke began to prevail over the flames.

"Can you tell me how it happened?" the fireman asked.

"Yes, one of our nurses was about to reverse the car out of the space to let our pharmacy rep in with his van, the one there on the pavement, I stopped her because I saw something strange sticking out from under the wheel arch. She got out and the car exploded. Was that a bomb?" Laurence could feel his lips trembling with the cold.

"It sounds like it. We'll be getting the investigator here once everything's safe. So, no casualties?"

"Well, apart from shock, and probably some spectacular bruises, no. Who would do such a thing?" he said, avoiding the eyes of the fireman instinctively.

"I'll carry on here, this is Constable Wallace, he'll go inside and talk to you all. It's imperative you stay inside until we put the fire out properly. Please could you inform any visitors you're expecting in the next few hours to stay away from this side of the building? Constable Wallace's colleague is in the car closing the road so we can get in and out, my name's Leading Fire Officer Gordon, I'll see you in a bit," Officer Gordon explained.

"What's going on here?" Michael commented as Scarlet turned the Land Rover into Pennant Mews off Marloes Road, where the clinic was situated.

"Fire engine, police, that doesn't look good!" she said as they drove along.

Having not even passed the first house on the Mews, they were waved to stop by a uniformed policeman who was standing just in front of his BMW patrol car. Scarlet wound down the window of her old jeep as he came running up to them. "What's the problem, officer?" she asked politely.

"There's been a car fire up at the clinic, you can't come any further," he said, breathless.

Michael leaned over, "Car fire? Excuse me, I work there, I'm the joint partner at the clinic, I need to get through!"

"Ok, sir, best thing to do would be to go back round, go down Lexham Gardens and find a back way through. Have you access from that side?" the policeman asked.

"Yes we do, we can park at the back of Lexham House and go through the gate," Michael told Scarlet.

"Yes, that's fine, officer, we'll go around, thank you," she said.

"I wonder who… oh no, I've got a bad feeling about this. It's only 8.15am, apart from the pharmacy delivery van that always comes today, it's only _my_ car that would have still been there all night. Laurence has a bike, and he comes in the back gate. You don't think… not Brook _again_?" Michael began to panic.

"Just take it easy, let me get this old crate turned and we'll find out in due course," she said, performing a rapid three-point turn in the middle of the street.

The car park behind Lexham House had been tidily cleared of snow, so they had no trouble leaving the Land Rover by the clinic's back gate and walking through. Reaching the front of the building, Michael could see that it was indeed his beloved Aston that now resembled a foam covered heap of charred metal. Scarlet saw his face. All the colour had drained out of it.

Fire Officer Gordon saw them and stepped forward, "I take it, sir, you work here? Constable Treacher just radioed me," he said.

"Yeah, I'm Dr Michael Morton… em, I think that's my car. What the hell happened?" Michael asked, tentatively.

"From your colleague's description it would appear a bomb had been placed under the wheel arch. Now, these days we're all on high alert for terrorists, but I think you've been extremely lucky. Most devices like these are wired into the ignition so they detonate immediately when the key is turned and the ignition sparks. This must either have had a faulty wire or a timer delay which saved the life of your colleagues. Terrorists don't tend to make such schoolboy errors, the question is, Dr Morton, have you any enemies?" Officer Gordon asked.

"Someone… someone's trying to blackmail me… us, the clinic," he muttered.

"Well, I suggest you go inside and speak to the constable and tell him all about it. Whoever did this needs to be caught, immediately," Officer Gordon said gravely.

In the reception area, Chantal and Laurence were talking to a policeman. Agnes was on the phone, cancelling and reorganising appointments. Julie, Alanna and Maurice could be seen down in the staff room. When they walked in, Chantal jumped to her feet and ran across to Michael.

"Oh Dr Morton, I'm sorry, I was only trying to move the car to let the pharmacy rep's van in and … oh, if Laurence hadn't noticed, oh, it was awful!" she babbled.

"What? You were _in_ the car?"

"Just out of it, oh, your lovely car! Laurence thinks it was a bomb! It's him, isn't it, that man who came in, who's writing that stuff on Twitter, he's… he's mental!" Chantal's voice reached a crescendo of agitation.

"Chantal, I'm so relieved you're not hurt! Look, it'll be fine, don't worry about the car, we have to tell them everything," Michael clasped her arm, but then threw a look at Scarlet, "Everything I told you, just tell." Scarlet rolled her eyes. _No way, it's as if Brook is courting trouble! _

Michael, Chantal, Laurence, Scarlet and Constable Wallace all sat on various chairs in Michael's office. Michael owned up about the true financial mess the clinic was in and told of how he had started to receive threatening letters from one Richard Brook. He explained clearly about the young car thief and how they had sent him away, then the visit, and the Twitter messages. "Finally today, it looks like Mr Brook has flipped his lid. I have done _nothing_ to attract such violence. I told Miss Summers here about Mr Brook as a friend of hers knew of him and said he was a very odd person. I just didn't believe anyone would go so far."

"Whew! That sounds very nasty. I'm afraid you really should have contacted the police earlier, Dr Morton, it may have prevented this from happening. But rest assured, we'll track him down. Er, there's actually a warrant out for his arrest, on an equally serious matter, so I think when we _do_ get him, he won't be going anywhere else for a very long time!" Constable Wallace explained.

"Good, we can't have criminals like that wandering around with impunity! I really do think, Constable, that the forces of law and order have become so obsessed with Arabs, they've forgotten that we have our own, home-grown lunatics that need monitoring too!" Scarlet exclaimed, playing the part of the concerned rich citizen.

"So you can't think why, apart from the visit of Lester Arnold, whom we know very well, that Richard Brook would target you?" Wallace asked.

Michael shook his head. He looked at Laurence knowingly. Laurence began to scratch his arm fiercely. "Laurence? Are you alright?" Chantal broke the silence. "There must be something wrong, you only do that when something's bothering you," she added.

Laurence stood up and paced back and forth a few times, "Ohh, this is impossible!" he said aloud, rubbing his hair with equal ferocity. "I'm not supposed to say anything! Official Secrets, Michael, I _can't_!"

Wallace stared at him, wide-eyed. "I beg your pardon, Dr Mellifer? If there is _anything_ you know, you _must_ tell us, it's in everyone's interests. You and Nurse Hart could have been killed out there."

Laurence was muttering to himself. Michael recognised the signs, his friend was losing control and could not reconcile the fact he had to override one promise to Molly Hooper in order to protect his current friends and colleagues. Michael got up and took a firm grip of Laurence's wrists. "Laurence, now, listen to me. I _know_. I know Molly asked you to do something and you are scared to tell because it's connected to that double suicide at St Bart's last week, right?" Laurence nodded, his eyes wild with fear.

"Whatever you did was right at the time, you helped someone, maybe even saved their lives, just as you did Chantal's, but here, now, it is right to tell the constable. Don't worry if it sounds mad, I think Miss Summers understands completely. No-one will do anything to you, I won't let them. Remember the day at Royal Free, when that idiot consultant wouldn't believe you, and I told him the truth? You can always trust me, _always_," Michael said softly, keeping Laurence's gaze the whole time.

"Ok. Um, can I sit down again?" Laurence asked sheepishly.

"Of course, now just explain from when Molly contacted you first…

Two weeks previously, Laurence had been surprised to get a phone call from his old university pal, Molly Hooper. He had been rolling his bike into the shed at the top of the drive outside his house when his mobile trilled in his pocket.

"Molly Hooper, how the hell are you?" he asked, as he stuffed one cycling glove after another into his pannier bag and headed for the back door.

"Ok, very busy in the stressful world of criminal forensics, you were wise to get out when you did!" she said, her voice dull, but still the same old self-effacing Molly trying to make light of a bad situation.

"Ah, but geeks must stick together!" he said, repeating their secret phrase which bound him, Molly, Daz and Elsa together.

"Well, I was just going to say that… and I mean it. I'm really sorry to land this on you, but you're actually the only person I trust to do this properly. Any chance I can meet up with you tonight?" Molly sounded agitated now.

"Of course! Give me time to have a shower and tidy up, safest if you come over here. I'm living in Queensmill Road, Fulham, right across from the cemetery, lovely quiet neighbours!" Laurence quipped.

"Oh ha ha, the only men I meet these days are dead ones! Right, I'll be over there in an hour, ok?"

"You made it; did you come on the bus?" Laurence asked.

"How did you know that?" Molly asked, flicking her hair out of her hood.

"Well, it's bucketing with rain now, has been almost since you got off the phone. If you'd taken the tube, you would either have had to walk from Baron's Court or Fulham Broadway, which is a darn sight further than getting off the bus up the road here. Your coat's hardly wet, and your trainers are practically dry, so you didn't walk that far, probably ran, but you don't have a brolly, so that leads me to believe you got the bus," Laurence explained.

"I've got a friend exactly like that… observant, almost to the point of magic," she said, "He reminded me of you the first time I met him. Tall, geeky, pale, but the difference with you is, you're nice, he can be utterly insensitive, his name's Sherlock Holmes."

"Sounds like a fellow geek, _and_ a fellow sufferer, poor guy surely has never tried to get himself socialised. So, does this Sherlock Holmes have anything to do with the fact you're here, considering I haven't seen you in about two or three years?" Laurence smiled, as he took her coat and hung it up on one of the brass coat hooks by the door.

"Mind reader, definitely, mind reader. Do you lot all stay in touch by telepathy or something?" Molly grinned.

"Dunno, Aspies are all different, different obsessions, different levels of awareness. I'm very conscious of why I behave the way I do and I fight it hard. Your friend Sherlock obviously just revels in it. Anyhoo, tea, splash of milk, no sugar and in a mug cos you don't like tea cups, as you fingers don't fit through the handles, yeah?" Laurence asked.

"You remembered, after all this time!" Molly beamed. She hugged him.

Sitting on the sofa later, Laurence persisted as to the reason for her visit.

"Well, it is Sherlock… he usually treats me as if I'm barely there, he's been horrible about my ex-boyfriend, who it turns out is actually a murderous psychopath called Jim Moriarty, but yesterday he came into the lab when I was on the late shift. I like being there myself at night, it's peaceful," she paused.

"St Bart's lab?"

Molly nodded, "So, I just ignored him, and he said my name. I was really fed up of him at that point so, I said, 'Why are you suddenly talking to me? It's not as if I count to you, is it?' Well, that got an interesting reaction…

"I-I'm sorry, Molly. I've been a fool not to see what was under my nose!" Sherlock Holmes looked more freakish and agitated than Molly had ever seen him. His skin was deathly pale, almost ghostly white against the navy blue of his scarf and the black of the wool coat he favoured so much. He rubbed his hair in a nervous fashion. He was close beside her, closer than normal. "Molly, you _do_ count."

She looked up at him properly, away from her microscope. His eyes were a shade of light yellow-green, like a jungle tiger. Molly could actually feel the rapid pulse of his heart through her arm as he put his hand on her sleeve. "Really?" she sighed.

"I need help. This business with Brook/Moriarty, it's come to a head. Mycroft wants me to bring him down, _Moriarty_ wants a showdown, and John needs to know that I'm not a liar, please…" Sherlock's voice dropped to a whisper.

It had taken a long time, but finally she realised there was more to him than hyper-cleverness and lucky guesses, he really was a detective, better than Lestrade or any of them. He was no fraud, all that crap in the paper that Kitty Riley had written, it was nonsense, because Molly herself had seen him do it. "What do you need?" she asked after a long silence.

"You, I need you."

Molly wanted to melt.

"Tell me."

"It involves breaking several laws, faking official paperwork, lying to your hospital colleagues, and most of all, _not_ telling Lestrade," Sherlock explained, his tone still deadly serious.

"Sounds fun, what can I do?"

"I need you to make me a corpse. It's like this; my brother believes I will be able to induce Moriarty into taking his own life. If so, then the only way I can, is if my nemesis thinks I will take mine. I can't back out, I have to make everyone believe that I am dead. John has to be convinced. Now you know what that will take. He's a doctor as you are, battlefield experience, he _has_ to believe it. Is it possible?" Sherlock asked, he was still clutching her arm.

"How are you going to make Jim think you're going to kill yourself?" Molly asked, entranced.

"I'm going to jump off the hospital roof."

"What? You can't do that, that's mad! How… I mean, if you jump, you'll hit the ground eventually!"

"That's just it, I won't. There will be a large laundry truck with a canvas roof which will be stationed below that building. Mycroft's men will be in charge of it. John will be kept out of the way in between seeing me jump and finding my body. Do you see what I'm driving at?"

"A spare, another you. Oh, now, wait a minute, this is all beginning to sound a bit like Burke and Hare, I'm not going to kill anybody off just to replace them with you!"

"You won't have to. Let me explain, because if I don't, you'll hate me even more than you already do," Sherlock began.

"I don't hate you… quite the opposite."

"Last night there were two vagrants who died not far from Thames House. Both riddled with cancer, no hope on earth, but by some dark miracle, Mycroft was outside talking to the paramedics and he saw that one of the men was quite young, near my age, same height, same build. He called me this morning and told me that he'd signed for the body and it was in the underground lab there, at his work. He will have the body delivered here as soon as you're ready for it, so, somehow, you have to make this homeless wreck look like me. Give him my face, Molly, can you do that?" Sherlock looked into her eyes, his full of fear, the first time she'd seen that emotion there.

"Yes. I have a friend from university; he's the best plastic surgeon I know. I will get him to help, I promise," she agreed solemnly.

"I will forever be in your debt for this," he began. His shoulders trembled, he bit his lip. "Er… I'm… I've never been good about death… Mycroft scares me with his cold attitude to this, he's not interested in me, he just wants Moriarty, so he can string him up before his security service friends like some weird trophy. I don't want to die if I can help it…" Sherlock gulped, but could not stop the single salt tear trickle down his left cheek.

Molly reached up her hand to his face and gently brushed the tear away across that strong cheekbone. The whole world could melt now and she wouldn't care, this moment would last in her mind's eye for all time, when she was able to comfort the man she truly loved. "You won't die, you won't, I won't let you."

He began to sob. Molly threw her arms around him. The pain of a lifetime of confusion, betrayal, hatred for his brother, sorrow for his dead mother, all poured out on that fateful night. Molly would never learn of these things, but she knew a floodgate had opened as his shoulders heaved as he wept into her shoulder. For however long it took for Sherlock to realise he had some release and that Molly would be true to him, they stood there, the doctor and the detective.

Eventually, Sherlock took some deep breaths and straightened up. Molly gave him a clean hanky from her lab-coat pocket and he blew his nose. Wiping his eyes, he asked, "Why do you want to do this for me?"

"Apart from the fact I'm in love with you, you mean?" Molly smiled knowingly, suddenly feeling like the most powerful woman in the world.

Sherlock gave her a truly genuine smile and nodded, "Yes, apart from that. Sorry, I'm so dense about these things. I need to take a woman's pulse before I believe they're interested in me!"

"You silly man. Well, it's simple, I _believe_ in you. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, even though right now the rest of the world doesn't. Look, go home to Baker Street, get some sleep, then tell your brother to deliver the John Doe here tomorrow afternoon. I'll go and talk to my friend Laurence and get him to do the job. He's like you, he could tell immediately what was wrong with a patient when we were at medical school. He was very pally eventually with our professor, Dr Bell, even though they sparked off each other like fireflies in the beginning. Dr Bell always told us to _observe_ and _deduce_. I think you would have liked him too!" Molly added.

Sherlock sniffed, "I think my ancestor had a Dr Bell as a tutor. He was a medical student too, in Edinburgh, way back when body-snatching was the only way to learn anatomy! I wonder if there's a connection there?"

"I'm sure there is, anyway, go home, it's really late now," Molly said, patting his shoulder.

"Yes, you're right, I should." Sherlock stood still for a moment.

Molly looked at him, and cocked her head sideways, "You ok? I mean, you still look as if you have something on your mind."

"Er, just this," he said, and to her great surprise, Sherlock Holmes swiftly grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her mouth. Before Molly could say anything, he was gone, the lab doors swinging behind him. Wha? _Did Sherlock Holmes just kiss me full on the lips? Have I died and gone to Heaven?_

"Oh dear, dearie dear, Molly, now, that's a story! So, he _does_ fancy you back? Sounds like one of our kind, hon, so, he wants me to give a dead man his face?" Molly nodded as Laurence laughed at the enormity of her tale. "Ok, we better do it now. Seriously, I hope he's in a fridge, your John Doe, the skin will go so quick."

"Eh, seriously?"

"Yes. It'll take the whole night, but luckily I know I have no procedures tomorrow, so I'll just take the day off. Come on then, we'll have to go back to the clinic so I can get my equipment. You got plenty photos of your detective for me to copy?"

"Yes, his brother gave me them today. Ok, we better move then. I'm going to have to fudge the entries for the lab at St Bart's, but I know a way to do it to make it look convincing. The cleaners will have no idea what we're doing, we'll go to the mortuary, there's another store there we can use, it was an old lab, supposedly locked up, but I've got keys for everything down there, police prerogative."

"So, that's why I was off that day, I stayed up all night turning the face of the tramp into that of Sherlock Holmes. He's definitely not dead, spirited off somewhere, but the other one, Moriarty, Molly told me she witnessed his post mortem, the MI5 pathologist did it. They hid Holmes in the laundry van, while the body of the double, dressed in the same clothes was shoved off a ledge halfway up the same building onto the ground, so it would sustain the exact injuries of a flyer. Molly saw everything. She said that poor John Watson, Sherlock's flatmate came running across to find the body there, and he was just _done_. It was the most brilliant, but macabre piece of theatre ever created, so I believe, and I had a hand in it. This Richard Brook must know the truth. He's connected in some way to Moriarty, and he wants revenge. _And_ worse still, if this started just after that all-nighter, he must have been _there_, or someone else in their gang, disguised as a cleaner! Because I remember, there was a cleaner, and he actually opened the door of that old lab we were in, nobody should have disturbed us, but there he was, a little guy, slick blonde hair, little moustache. He apologised then disappeared, but I remember thinking, _oh-oh_, something wasn't right about the fact he had known we were there. I'm sorry Michael, this was all my fault, nothing to do with you, I don't know why he targeted you when it was _me_!" Laurence rubbed his hair again, rapidly.

"He knew it would destroy you. He obviously thought attacking me would induce you to do something. It ends here, Laurence, and you are not at fault," Michael soothed. He looked at Scarlet Ribbon, they'd guessed right, and it explained why he'd killed Kitty and Kate, all the people connected to Sherlock Holmes. But, he would say no more.

"Well, er, this is way, way out of my league, I think I'll need to contact Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard, the warrant, it's to do with a death, it's Lestrade's case, so he'll be very interested to hear this story, might help him catch this Brook character before he attacks Dr Hooper next!" Constable Wallace exclaimed.

"Won't be necessary, Constable, I'm here," the voice came from the figure standing in the doorway. How long he had been standing there no-one knew, but it appeared he had heard most of Laurence's confession. "Sorry to startle you, I am indeed D.I. Lestrade, and yes, Dr Mellifer, Richard Brook _is_ indeed connected to Jim Moriarty. They were identical twin brothers."

**Chapter 9**

Lestrade caught Scarlet's eye and wondered why her face had a ring of familiarity to it. Michael, Laurence and Chantal also looked around and stared at the inspector, standing with snow-drenched shoes and wet trouser legs. "We had a DNA match from a crime scene. It would seem Brook is as much a criminal maniac as his brother. I don't know yet if they were aware of each other, I would think so considering the scam they pulled off with the help of that journalist. She, incidentally is the murder victim. Looks like he's clearing up after himself."

"Sir, I think maybe we shouldn't speculate?" Wallace advised hesitantly.

Lestrade guffawed and then sighed. "You're beginning to sound like Sherlock as well, Constable Wallace!"

"Inspector Lestrade?" Michael began, and Greg nodded to him, "I presume we are in real physical danger now. The man has tried to kill me, and could have killed my colleagues, if it wasn't for Laurence's observant eye. So what do you suggest we do?"

"Dr Morton, my best advice would be to close the clinic and disappear, out of London, out of the country if necessary. But, realistically, we need you all here to establish exactly what Brook has been doing. Right now, stay here till the fire investigators have finished their work. I've requested some more uniformed officers to keep an eye back and front of this place. At least I can understand now why he chose to target you. James Moriarty was possibly one of the worst threats to domestic security and just as we thought we had done with him, I suspect we have one equally insane. Sorry to be dramatic, folks, I've not entirely been kept in the loop as you might have guessed from Dr Mellifer's tale. The security services clearly operate outside the law, and I can't overrule them. Right now, Richard Brook is a murder suspect and a blackmailer, and we'll arrest him as such, can't be too hard, he clearly fancies himself as a bold jack-the-lad and his own arrogance is likely to trip him up," Lestrade explained.

"That's hardly a wise attitude, Detective Inspector, we are talking about the twin of Jim Moriarty. Insanity breeds insanity, I don't think you'll catch him so easily," Scarlet spoke up at last. "I told you on the phone, didn't I?"

"Ah, it was _you_! You're Irene Adler's friend, Jenny Summers. And you're the one from the car crash, I take it you know a whole lot more than the rest of us in that case!" Lestrade was suddenly annoyed.

Scarlet moved to stand up, but Michael grabbed her arm tightly, _Don't tell him anything, it'll only get messier_! He hissed. She instead stared back at Lestrade. "Oh, so you're going to believe the same lies as the type that poor, stupid cow Kitty Riley was pedalling, are you? Evidence, Detective Inspector, there is such a thing, and you don't have any. Your police colleagues' suspicions of me are entirely based on twenty-five year old photos of a car that I now own! Excuse me if I don't have any faith in you then, it sounds like this Sherlock Holmes was showing the Met up for the useless articles they were!"

Greg rocked back on his heels a little, hurt by her words. "_I_'m not the bully around here. I wasn't even in the force then. Look, seriously folks, I want to catch Brook as much as you do. He's a killer, we know it," he said, holding up his hands in protest.

"What about poor Kate Burrell, she hardly had anything to do with this, why did he kill her? Irene is convinced it was him," Scarlet added.

"Now look here, I shouldn't have to tell you confidential information from another murder case!" Lestrade shook his finger.

Scarlet interrupted him, "Irene is my friend, she told us all about what happened. Tell me and I'll save you the bother of telling her yourself. She'll bite your head off if you go near her with news that it _wasn't_ Brook. That's what you're afraid of, isn't it? Brook didn't kill Kate, did he?" it suddenly dawned on her that one of the late Irishman's cronies might have been responsible, as it seemed unnaturally quick on the heels of Kitty's death. Could he have cleaned himself up, destroyed the bloody clothing, _and_ gone over to kill Kate in Belgravia all from North Dulwich in so short a time?

Lestrade did not know where to look, he knew she was just guessing, but this was too much, two killers on the loose, and one unknown. "Constable, could you go and interview the other members of staff, please, I need to speak to these people myself, in private," he said, exasperatedly, shooing Wallace out with a motion of his hand. The constable obeyed and stepped quickly out of the office. Lestrade sank into the chair he had just vacated. "I know what you're thinking, how rubbish are we that now just over maybe 30 hours since two murders took place and we policemen are floundering around like fools? Sherlock Holmes will be looking down and laughing at me from on high," he grumbled.

"Well, he'd be right then, wouldn't he!" Scarlet snapped. Michael squeezed her arm sharply.

"I'm sorry, Inspector, this is a disturbing day for all of us. It's just good luck that none of us were seriously injured or worse this morning. I presume you have people looking for Richard Brook? Surely he'll return to Dulwich, he was staying with Miss Riley, wasn't he?" Michael said, trying to defuse the situation.

"Yep, we've got guys there, at his work and over at Baker Street, in case he decides to do a little ghost-raising over there too. All we can do is wait, there's not much else," Lestrade replied.

"Em, Inspector," Chantal began in a wavering voice, "If this man's only been at the clinic, maybe he doesn't know where we live? I mean, I really, really would feel happier at home," she said, still shaking.

"We can't assume anything, Nurse…?"

"Hart, Chantal Hart. I started the car up this morning. Laurence noticed there was something strange and told me to get out. That's when it blew up," she was on the verge of tears. Laurence, although stressed himself, put his arm around her and tried to pacify her.

"I'm so sorry, Nurse Hart, I think really, it would be best to check none of you have any injuries. Maybe… maybe if all of you went to one place that you're not normally in, but which is safe, at least then we'd know where you were and could concentrate our efforts on that locus, cos my superiors sure as hell won't spare men to be on guard at each individual home," Lestrade said hopefully.

"Oh now, you've just reminded me…" Laurence spoke, his eyes suddenly bright. "I know a safe place, somewhere nobody else knows but me. And it'll be safe for us all."

"Where's that?" Chantal asked, looking up at her senior colleague.

"The tunnel," Laurence looked like a little boy about to share his deepest secret of which he was very proud.

"Tunnel?" Michael began. Before Laurence could elaborate, he remembered, "Oh, you mean the old cellars? I didn't realise they were connected to anywhere else. This building, in fact the whole Mews dates back to Georgian times, you can see by their very flush, austere brick frontages. They all had very deep cellars. We used part of our one for our data store, but there is access to the other side. I vaguely remember seeing on the plans when we worked with the architect to convert the place into the clinic, all the cellars in the street are, or were once, connected, but I was never very sure why or where the rest of the connecting tunnel went, so Laurence, it was your secret hidey hole all along?" he smiled at his beaming colleague who was nodding vigorously.

"The tunnel's a bit newer than the houses, it's an old inspection tunnel for the Tube line. One night I went for a wander with my torch and ended up at a deep-level shelter connected to Gloucester Road underground station. Dated from the Great War. The other end goes to Earls Court station, but this is the _only_ cellar connected to it, cos this house belonged to a senior government official who was in the Ministry of War in 1915. This was a safe house for them, _and_ I found out that it was used by Civil Defence in World War II _and_ had a Cold War early warning phone system. It's all still down there," Laurence beamed.

"Wow, like a spy novel!" Chantal whispered in awe.

"Why didn't the architect say something when we bought the place?" Michael queried.

"_He_ didn't know it was there. If you go down to the basement and go through the fire door at the far end of the store, it takes you down a stair to the real cellar, which is behind a huge steel door. You didn't realise what all the keys were for, neither did the estate agent, but you know me, I had to have everything _organised_ and catalogued. When I found there was a safe space for me, I kept it to myself!" Laurence explained, then he frowned, "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"Of course not," Michael assured.

"Er, if that tunnel was used by the MoD to connect to the tube station, it means that you'd be trespassing on both MoD and Transport for London properties, I'm not sure I'd be happy about that, folks," Lestrade protested.

"It isn't any worse than going home and waiting for this nutter to strike there!" Laurence retorted. "Look, come and I'll show you, we own this building, which _was_ owned by the MoD, so everything in the deeds belongs to us. Inspector, I have Asperger's, if I can't remain in control of a situation, I have to find another routine to protect myself. Michael and Chantal understand, so I would beg you to do so."

Lestrade rubbed his face in an exasperated manner, "Ok, ok, I'm sorry, I'm a bit freaked out by this myself. Can you just make sure none of you are more seriously injured and I promise I'll come and have a look at this tunnel in a bit. I've got to go and talk to my chief inspector," he sighed. He got up and left the office.

"I shall leave you three for the moment, I must call Irene," Scarlet said. Before Michael had a chance to say anything, she stalked outside after Lestrade.

"Come on, Laurence, let's have a look at you," Michael said, as Laurence began to pull off his scrub tunic, and then his t-shirt.

"Oh Laurence, your back! What a mess!" Chantal exclaimed.

Laurence turned and Michael could see a large area of scraped, raw skin from his colleague's waist up to his shoulders, which was now bruising rapidly at the edges. "Uh huh, must've been when I hit the pavement after catching you," he said.

"Looks about right," Michael commented, "We'll get Julie to clean you up with some antiseptic then cover it with gauze. Legs ok? Any sciatic pain?"

"Hmm," Laurence bent forward and back, "Not immediately, but I'll keep an eye on it. Good job I took all the impact, eh, Chantal?" he smiled blearily at her.

"Um, I suppose so, think my coat caught most of the flying glass as well. I'm just shaky, that's all," she replied. "I'm so sorry, Laurence!"

"Aw, Chantal, now, now, it's fine, I'd rather have a few scrapes and save your pretty face any day," he replied, cheery again.

She blushed, "I'll get Julie," Chantal got to her feet and left them.

"I'm the one who should be apologising to you, Laurence, it was my car after all, and normally I would have taken it home, but I… I was out last night," Michael said, looking away. He knew that Laurence was not likely to have noticed anything strange about Scarlet and he coming in together, but the others would. Poor Chantal, she'd had no idea what was happening, and now it was his fault that both his colleagues had been put in danger. He was seething; this man Brook had no right to do this, none at all.

"Mike, it's _fine_, honestly. The worse didn't happen. Not sure how much use the police are going to be, though, think my tunnel will be the best bet, I mean, not even a psychopath could know about all the secret hidey-holes in London, and definitely not this one. Do you realise that this building has a reinforced steel frame? They rebuilt it from the inside so no-one would know what was being done. The official, his name was Sir Meredith Angel, he actually owned the whole of the Mews from 1880! He was reputed to have been instrumental in setting up an intelligence department in the Ministry of War, which means, he was the grandfather of MI5!" Laurence laughed.

Michael sighed, "I'm glad you've got something else to focus on. I wish you'd told me about helping Molly, at least it would have alerted me to the seriousness of the threat from Brook at the very beginning. I do hope the Inspector is going to protect _her_ too. Look, you get those scrapes seen to, I'm going to talk more to Lestrade," he continued, picking up his new coat again. Laurence nodded. Michael opened the door just as Julie and Chantal re-entered.

Primrose Hill was temporarily a children's snow playground as dozens of youngsters having the day off school were sledging, skidding about on old tractor tyres or even large tin trays. Near the summit which was covered in black, leafless trees, were a number of benches, mainly occupied by parents and child-minders watching their broods caper around on the slopes. One man sat on his own, a woollen hat covering his hair, his body wrapped in a fluorescent green ski jacket, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. His hands were shoved into his pockets. Another man, dressed in a long black raincoat sat down beside him.

"What in Heaven's name are you _doing_?" the ski-jacketed man whispered sharply as his colleague pulled off his own leather gloves.

"Mon Dieu, I could ask _you_ the same question! It's all over Twitter. You tried to blow up the good doctor's car!" the man in the coat spoke with a slight French accent.

"I am doing exactly as we agreed, clearing up after our dear, departed friend. I take it I missed my target? And what about you? What reason was there to upset Irene Alder?"

"Because she knew Sherlock Holmes! C'est toujours l'amour! Thus, the only way to ensure she thinks Jim's still around was to get her out of the way! She knows _many_ influential people and their secrets. If we want to continue what Jim started, then keeping her at arm's length is a good idea, n'est-ce pas?"

The ski-jacketed man looked straight ahead as the winter sun dazzled them. "They'll know it wasn't me. You better hope you're not on any police database here or in Europe!"

"Ha ha, I'm not, I can assure you of that! Richard, mon ami, we just have to ensure we _talk_ regularly. I would not want to think you are becoming too independent. Remember, I am perhaps the only man in Europe who knew how far Moriarty's web stretched, and who we can afford to pressurise. Thankfully that odious little girl has been dealt with! But we have other tame journalists who can continue to ensure the name of Sherlock Holmes is universally execrated for a very long time to come. Now, about the pathologist, is she next on your list?"

"Might be. If the doctors from the clinic are still unharmed I may need to revisit them. Dr Hooper on the other hand will either be with Lestrade or in St Bart's. Now if she thought her beloved Sherlock Holmes had come back to protect her…" Richard Brook's mental cogs started turning rapidly again.

"Oh ho, too good to be true, mon ami, and you have her mobile number?"

"Not yet, but our man inside should be able to get it, right?"

"I like your style, Mr Brook, I like it very well. I shall contact our friend this hour," he stood up again. "But, Richard, please, no 'jumping the gun' as you Englishmen say, let me know when you are about to act!"

"Sebastian, you know very well I'm an Irishman. Goodbye, let _me_ know when I can act!"

Michael Morton caught up with Scarlet at her Land Rover. Climbing into the passenger seat, he said nothing.

"I take it by the look on your face you aren't happy?"

"What do you think? I come to work and find my car's been blown up and two of my colleagues were in danger of their lives! I'm not just unhappy, I'm bloody furious!" he hissed.

"You cannot blame _me_ for this. Brook is clearly after you all for Laurence's input into the deception involving Sherlock Holmes. Anyway, do you want to know exactly how Brook turns out to be James Moriarty's twin?" Scarlet asked.

"Fine," he replied.

"My little hacker friend realised that if Brook is a member of Equity, there is a good chance that is just a stage name, and he was right. Richard Burke joined the actors' union in 2000. So, Raven had a look for a birth certificate in Ireland, as Burke gave his place of birth as Dublin. Turns out his parents were Bridget Burke and …wait for this, Rory Moriarty. James and Richard Moriarty were born on July 1st, 1977 in Dublin's maternity hospital. James was senior by ten minutes. The parents divorced in 1979, it looks like the boys' father took James away to the States, as Raven found visa applications for that year. Now, here's where it gets interesting, in 1987, Bridget Burke Moriarty was found dead at her home in Richmond. Ten year-old Richard was sitting at the top of the stairs in a catatonic state. He was taken away to a psychiatric hospital for rehabilitation. Guess what was Mrs Moriarty's cause of death," Scarlet was smirking knowingly.

Michael, though looking straight out of the windscreen could visualise the situation clearly; perhaps the young lad resented his mother for splitting up the family, maybe he missed his sibling? Could a ten year-old be guilty of murder? One with mental problems might. "A broken neck," he said at last.

"Precisely. So, Richard does have a thing about it. The little monster pushed his own mother down the stairs to punish her for taking him away from his father and brother. And, from an old newspaper report in the very same year, James Moriarty was a pupil at Ladbroke Grove Primary School, where a fellow pupil, Carl Powers died of a heart-attack at the local swimming pool where he was about to take part in a gala. Methinks the brothers Moriarty are the two heads of a double-ended coin. Whether they knew where the other was, I don't know, but _somebody_ found Richard Brook and recruited him for the newspaper scam. So, he is trouble. All the more reason you clear out of this situation and help me, then you can say goodbye to your debts forever!" Scarlet exclaimed.

"Do you think I'm as callous as leave my colleagues, my _friends_ open to danger? To hell with the clinic if saving it means risking their lives! I thought I had the measure of you last night, but clearly I didn't. I don't like this cold, selfish side to you, not one bit! Brook, or Burke or whatever he's called has gone too far! If I got hold of him I'd skin him alive with my own scalpel and enjoy every minute of it!" Michael growled, clenching his fists.

She laughed, "Ha! Now, that's more like it! You see? You aren't a criminal, but you're capable of anger, _righteous_ anger, and that is what will protect you if nothing else. I'm impressed. Look, no-one is going to come anywhere near your colleagues, _I_ have friends who like nothing better than enjoying a bit of gratuitous violence. They will be quite happy to keep a watch on you all. They are discrete, they have to be, but any sign of Brook or any of Moriarty's cronies, and they will deal with them, be it ever so severely. I'm not stupid, Michael, I know you would resist helping me if it meant endangering your friends here," Scarlet grabbed his shoulder, pulling him around to face her, "If you do this for me, I promise, you will never hear from me again. Your debts will be paid, not one whiff of scandal will be able to attach itself to the clinic, deal?"

He looked into her violet eyes, feeling that same sensual buzz as before; she was practically irresistible. And she had those photographs. He frowned as he tried to convince himself Scarlet would mean what she said.

"I saw the way Nurse Hart looked at you. That girl's infatuated, but she's probably a far more sensible option for you than me. You would very quickly bore me, Michael, I can't see me hanging around after this. Rafe is my priority; help him and I'll leave you and your little nurse to get better acquainted. Maybe this will convince you that seizing the day is always the best option," Scarlet added.

Michael gaped at her. He pulled away, "Alright, alright! I'll do it, but please, don't let anything happen to the others. I'm quite sure Laurence would be happy to hide in the bowels of the earth, that's his perfect fantasy, but Chantal, and his old friend Molly, it's not right for them!"

"Michael, rest assured, you don't even need to know who your guardian angels are, but they'll be watching. Tell the others you have an emergency home visit to make, and we can at least go and see Rafe," she replied, her voice mellowing to that silky tone she'd used the night before.

"Very well, I'd better get a couple of textbooks so we can work something out."

Molly Hooper was extremely surprised while sitting in the mortuary staffroom at St. Bart's to get a call on her mobile. It was a woman's voice.

"Dr Hooper? Molly?"

"Er, yeah, that's me, who's this?"

"It's Irene Adler. I believe we have a mutual friend in Sherlock Holmes," the smooth refined tones made Molly jump, remembering that this was the woman who had previously tricked Mycroft Holmes into believing that a mangled corpse with no face was her.

"Oh, er, yes, what is it? I-I heard about your friend Kate, I'm so sorry, is there anything I can do to help you?" Molly stuttered.

"Yes. I have just been informed that the person who killed her was _not_ Richard Brook. Is there anything you can tell me about who it _might_ be? I just hoped, that, well, knowing our friend from Baker Street, you might just tell me on the quiet? I wouldn't drop you in it, that I can promise."

Molly stared at her phone, _what on earth is happening here? This woman has been with Sherlock, yet she's asking me to help her?_ "Em, I can't talk here. Do you know Postman's Park? It's a little old churchyard across from the hospital here, it's usually quiet, can you meet me there?"

"Yes. I'm in London, so I'll be there in about half an hour," Irene told her.

Molly found a spare personal alarm in the staffroom. The nurses had loads of them. She wrapped the nylon cord around her wrist and carried the alarm with her thumb resting on the switch. The snow was still in evidence on the streets, and the pocket park was still shrouded, the fragments of dismantled headstones huddling together eerily in the far corner by the old church which was occasionally used as a soup kitchen these days. She huddled up on the memorial bench and waited. She was still furious with Sherlock, but it slowly dawned that if Irene was asking for her help, he hadn't been in touch with the glamorous dominatrix either.

Irene walked into the park from the other side, wearing a long white wool coat, black high-heeled boots and leather gloves. Her make-up was immaculate and her hair swept up in a 1940s retro style. "Dr Hooper?" she asked, seeing Molly peering at her over her scarf from the bench.

"Uh huh, you're Irene Adler," she replied.

Irene walked quickly up to the bench and sat down. "You know everything, don't you? About what happened on the roof. I want to know, who is dead and who is still alive?" she asked, her eyes bright with concern.

"I can't tell you that. If you don't know already, I'm not saying anything. What I will say is the person who killed the reporter had the same DNA as Jim Moriarty, who I last saw being dissected under Mycroft's watchful gaze. So, make of that what you will," Molly said softly.

"But _he_ didn't kill Kate, nor his brother. So who did?" Irene asked again.

"Dunno, there's no match for the samples we found. Moriarty was a master criminal, a murderer, doubtless he had an array of minions to help him."

"Dr Hooper… Molly, I was the one who found Kitty Riley, and called it in. I saw the state she was in. Now, I think Inspector Lestrade knows I was there, but he's not pursuing me about it for some reason. Whoever killed Kate _had_ to know about Kitty. He _hanged _her, and we were minutes behind!" Irene gasped.

Molly frowned, that couldn't have been fun, witnessing one murder scene then finding someone you care about dead in the next instance. "I've not been to a crime scene. I deal with them, corpses I mean, when they come all clean to the lab after the techies have washed them. I try and talk to them, the dead, cos no-one else will. I looked after Kate. She's at the mortuary if you want to see her. Did you know that the video phone by the door had been disconnected? She probably answered the door thinking it was you. I'm sorry. She looks peaceful now, honestly," Molly explained, realising she had the upper hand here.

Irene gulped back a sob. "I'm relieved it was you. I don't know you, Molly, but I know you helped Sherlock. He went to you because he knew you were to be trusted in the end. Kate was very special to me. I want to get whoever killed her!"

Molly, seeing that Irene was suffering, put a hand on her shoulder, "I know, and I want Brook caught too, he's trouble. He could undo everything that … certain people put in place to stop the likes of him rising again. Can't you think of who it might have been? Surely you… I mean, you've met him, right?"

"No, I have only talked to him on the phone. I offered to sell him compromising photographs and he promised to make me rich beyond my wildest dreams, but he wanted evidence they existed. I had to meet with an associate of his, a Frenchman. I showed this man the pictures on my phone and he called Moriarty there and then. I could just hear the other side of the call, he called him by name… what was it?" Irene began, racking her brains for what she had heard the Irishman say.

Molly's mind went into fast rewind. _A colonel in the French Army… that's what Mycroft said, _"Was it Sebastian?" she asked aloud.

"Yes, yes! That was it! How did you know?"

"Sebastian Moran. MI5 are looking for him," Molly said, looking at the horrified expression which suddenly crossed Irene's face.

"_Mycroft_! He's the one who's stopping you telling me everything, right? He thinks I'm dead! Really, really this time, but Sherlock … he saved my life, told me to keep out of the UK. I couldn't stay away. So, how much does our spymaster actually know?" Irene exclaimed.

"He said Moran was Moriarty's right-hand man, and if anyone was pulling the strings now, it was him, so if anyone's responsible, it's him. But we can't go chasing after either of them, they're mad! Right now I'm scared to go home, because if by some horrible chance the twins swopped places at the last minute and it was Richard up on the roof, not Jim, then I'm done for. So, you've seen Moran, what does he look like?" Molly asked, beginning to think about the night she and Laurence had turned the dead vagrant into Sherlock Holmes.

"He's quite short, 5ft 6 maybe less, blonde hair, a little moustache, has an expression like that Carry-On filmstar, Terry-Thomas, you know, leering? Euegh, he made my skin crawl just to look at him, has a very strong French accent, sounds like Northern France, Normandy somewhere," Irene described, remembering the meeting in a layby on the Westway.

Molly clasped her hands to her mouth, "Oh no, I've seen him too! Only, he didn't sound French. He … he was posing as a cleaner. Oh no, no, no, then he knows! He knows what Laurence and I did!" she gasped.

"What? Is this something to do with Sherlock? Molly, please, I know you don't like me very much, but if there's a chance he's still… I won't tell, honestly, I can't anyway, I don't want Mycroft to find me out!" Irene whispered desperately. "Molly, I can help you, trust me, they won't get you!"

Molly leapt to her feet, "I can't! I can't, because he'll know, Mycroft will know, he has spies everywhere, no, you better disappear yourself, I've got to find Lestrade, this minute!"

Irene grabbed at her arm, "Molly, you don't have to give me details, _is Sherlock still alive_?"

Molly slowly nodded her head then fled back in the direction of St. Bart's, leaving Irene shocked. _Moran, that little toad! He killed my Kate? _"I swear, you mincing little Frog, I will have you for this!" she vowed aloud. Irene grabbed her phone from out of her pocket and rang Scarlet.

She and Michael had just reached Warwick Square, Scarlet managing to slip the Land Rover into the empty space by Rafe's Morgan. She shooed Michael out of the car as she answered the call.

"Brook didn't kill Kate right enough, and I've just got some information that points the finger at Moriarty's bosom pal, Sebastian Moran! He's a slimy, craven little scumbag who did all Moriarty's dirty work. I think he and Brook are in league. Scarlet, I can't let him off!" Irene hissed, pacing back and forth in the little park.

"Oh Irene, that's awful! Thing is, it makes sense, my computer hacker friend has now given me more or less the life story of the Moriarty twins. I suspect that Richard Brook was contacted by Moran to start with, it was only when he told him the story to feed to Kitty Riley he must have realised his brother was in London. They were separated when they were two years old! Their parents divorced. I think Richard killed his mother when he was ten. He'd been in an asylum, then as an adult, becoming an actor gave him a simple way of changing his name. Don't tell me you're back in London, why didn't you go to Sydney's?" Scarlet said.

"I rang her from Kings Cross and told her what had happened, but that I would rather stay and deal with it. She arranged for me to stay in a property she owns in St John's Wood. I was there last night. I contacted the pathologist, Molly Hooper after you told me what Lestrade had said, she confirmed it, and I managed to get out of her that Sherlock Holmes' brother Mycroft already had Moran as a suspect. She said something about a man called Laurence, and that Moran had been posing as a cleaner at the hospital and disturbed them, does that make any sense to you?" Irene asked.

Scarlet swung a glance at Michael, who was standing on the pavement, looking admiringly at Rafe's antique vehicle. "Oh dear, now we're getting to the heart of it. Laurence is Michael Morton's partner at the clinic, he was an old medical school friend of Molly's. Sherlock Holmes asked her to find someone who could copy his face onto a dead tramp. She asked Laurence, who apparently is hot stuff as a plastic surgeon. I've just heard Laurence confess the whole thing, in front of his colleagues, a police constable _and_ your Inspector Lestrade! Sherlock Holmes is alive alright, some poor nameless vagrant got his face and was used as his double to fool everyone. Moran was there. So he knows Holmes is alive, not so convenient if he and Brook are planning to stage a resurrection of their own!"

Irene was silent for a moment. Her heart leapt to know Sherlock was still living. But he'd asked for Molly when it counted, she guessed as much, the girl had looked at her like she was some sort of she-devil, _so, play it safe, eh?_

"Irene, are you there?" Scarlet asked insistently.

"Yes, yes, I'm trying to decide what to do. I want to get Moran before the security services do, I must have revenge for Kate!" Irene retorted.

"All well and good, but don't you think it would be wise to keep away from the hospital? If Moran can come and go there unchallenged, he might surprise you before you're ready! Look, I'm sorting out Rafe Charteris at the moment, go to mine, round the back up the lane, through the back gate, you'll get the spare key in the summer house, it's in the cuckoo clock. Just take the thing off the wall and you'll find it inside. Wait there for me and _don't move_!" Scarlet ordered.

"Alright, yes, better safe than sorry. And Scarlet, thank you," Irene replied.

"What are friends for? Now scoot!"

**Chapter 10**

"What was that all about?" Michael asked as Scarlet finally got out.

"Nothing really, just confirmation of a few things from this morning. We'll be safe enough here, I told you, didn't I?" she assured.

A few minutes later they had been given entry to the main door and had reached Rafe's flat. The man who opened it could only be his cousin, Charles-Henry Ravenhurst, standing well over six foot tall, with black, neat wavy hair, dark green eyes, an elongated face and a strong aquiline nose, similar to Rafe's. He was immaculate in a navy blue suit which Scarlet guessed was a bespoke Saville Row or Jermyn Street creation, and peered at them over silver-rimmed spectacles.

"Good day, so, you are Scarlet Ribbon, an old friend of Rafe's?" he spoke in the most clipped, RP accent Scarlet had heard in a long time, it was almost as if he did not wish to waste words.

"Yes, that's correct, and this is Dr Michael Morton," she replied, looking at Michael who felt very sheepish under the gaze of the tall Englishman.

"Very well, come in, my cousin is rather anxious that you begin your _project_ today," Charles-Henry said carefully.

"Oh we hope to," Scarlet said with a smile. _Hmm, charm has zero effect on this one, he's practically Dr Spock_! She thought when Charles-Henry did not return the smile.

Inside Rafe practically bounded off the sofa where he'd been lying and flung his arms around Scarlet, "Oh I'm so relieved to see you! If it hadn't been for Charles-Henry and Meredith, I'd have probably opened up an artery again!" he looked awful, pale, haggard and downright miserable.

"Rafe, I'm beginning to wonder if you're not _really_ succumbing to something, look at the state of you! Michael, please check him out, I don't want us to really be calling for a hearse!" Scarlet kept her arm around Rafe's slender waist and helped him back to the sofa.

Michael followed, he sat down next to Rafe, "Right then, let me just check a few things, I've got a blood pressure kit in here, but she's right, you look like a man who is mentally and physically exhausted," he said.

"No thanks to that woman! If it wasn't for you chaps, Nancy would be the death of me, definitely!" Rafe moaned, as Michael instructed him to roll up his shirt sleeve, and then put the cuff onto his upper arm.

"Mr Ravenhurst, surely you can have the marriage annulled? I mean, it sounds like this woman tricked him into it, whatever her motive!" Scarlet turned to Charles-Henry who stood in the doorway, tall and uncompromising like a grizzly bear.

"I have already looked at the legal issues there, and it is possible, however, having offered Ms Donafiro the chance to do so, we now know she is determined to slander my cousin's name if any such steps are taken. The idea that she should believe Rafe is terminally ill and then accept his death is possibly the next best course of action. Fortunately for the Ravenhurst estate, as long as my aunt is still alive, she is the sole owner. Also, my uncle was not able to amend his will before he died, and at the moment, my youngest cousin, Fern, Rafe's sister is the heir. A curious situation, but legally it stands as his last will and testament. The plan would be to make it clear at the last moment to Ms Donafiro that she has no claims on the family estate, and hopefully she will beat a sensible retreat," Charles-Henry explained in his slow, but precise manner.

"Well, well, Rafe, you being a rascal might actually have worked in your favour. Good job your mother is hale and hearty!" Scarlet said brightly, turning to her dishevelled friend.

"Your blood pressure is on the high side, but that would tally with you being very stressed. What's your alcohol and tobacco consumption like?" Michael asked calmly.

"Er, well, I'm very partial to malt whisky, probably sloshing down rather a lot lately, and I had given up on the old cancer-sticks, but I'm afraid I started again, if only to annoy Nancy who hates smoking," Rafe confessed.

Michael clicked his tongue. "Aye, that makes you a great candidate for a heart-attack, stroke, lung cancer, throat cancer, or all of them! But don't worry, most doctors are as unhealthy as you are."

Rafe was relieved when Michael smiled sympathetically at him. "So, what horrible disease can I pretend to have? Something exotic?"

Michael shook his head, "No, something mundane, exotic diseases are difficult to fake effectively. This is very risky, but I'm prepared to do it if you do exactly as you're told. Is there anything at all you know of, any inherited conditions which might actually have affected you that we could play on?"

Rafe sat up straight and stared at his cousin, "By Jove, I've been a total fool, how could I forget? My father died because he had an inherited electrical defect in his heart. Our grandfather, and great grandfather both died in their 50s with the same thing, it's like a time-bomb, the least thing sets it off! I'm surprised my ticker hasn't conked out already the grief Nancy's given me!"

"Well, I didn't want to encourage you to try something that might well endanger your life!" Charles-Henry retorted.

"So," Michael began, stroking his chin, "Inherited arrhythmia, which is actually fascinating. This 'time-bomb' idea is right, it's called Brugada Syndrome, I'm sure you would have been tested for the condition when you were a teenager, Rafe, were you?"

"Um, yes, I think I was. I was nineteen when my father died. Scared me stiff because I'd got into rather a messy situation at college… the first time I had a run-in with a mad Italian woman! I don't recall them finding anything at the time," Rafe replied.

"Ok, then you should be safe. But, all the same, you should come down to the clinic and I'll hook you up to the ECG, just to make sure, it's the only way to detect an irregular heart rhythm. I will only go ahead with this if I think you do _not_ have any real problems. Inherited arrhythmias can skip a generation, so you might have been the lucky one. So _if_ you are in the clear, there are drugs that can induce chest pain and even cause VF, that's ventricular fibrillation, when the heart flutters and stops pumping blood. It's a very, very dangerous game, and will look terrifying to anyone not in the know. However, we can do other things that are less dramatic, like muscle relaxants which will affect your ability to walk, some even stop the breathing and necessitate artificial breathing apparatus. That sort of thing can add up to a brain tumour, especially one which has metastasised, that is, spread from somewhere else. Or, we can use blood pellets to fake vomiting blood, and you can have pancreatic cancer. This really does sound disgusting, I take it this is the only way to get rid of your troublesome bride?" Michael stopped, feeling a little uneasy.

"Sadly yes. But that's interesting about the heart stuff, mm, yes, I could have a spectacular fake heart-attack and that would really frighten her. She would know about my father. She wouldn't know whether I had it or not, I've been too much of a coward to find out any more since… well, my younger brother definitely doesn't have it, and Fern's ok. You've cheered me up no end, Dr Morton, I'd be quite happy to go to your clinic," Rafe beamed.

Just then there was a furious knock at the flat door. "I didn't hear the buzzer, who could that be?" Charles-Henry asked.

"Huh, you don't need to guess, cousin, it's the black widow herself! Let her in, damn menace!" Rafe snapped, his demeanour suddenly reverting to gloomy depression.

Charles-Henry opened the door, and was rapidly pushed aside by a tall, curvaceous woman in her early fifties with jet black curly hair which fell luxuriously over her shoulders. She was dressed in a leather jerkin, black trousers and eye-catching red heels, Scarlet noting they were Jimmy Choos. The woman had an oval, olive-skinned face, with large brown eyes and a fulsome mouth. She was striking indeed, but there was something cold about her eyes, a brutal gleam which gave the impression she was not to be trifled with. Her sculpted nose was of interest to Michael, who immediately recognised the work of a fellow plastics expert. _Probably paid to get rid of an unsightly Roman nose_! He thought.

"Mamma Mia, my husband! Always people here, do you not trust me?" her voice was sharp and piercing.

_Dearie me,_ thought Scarlet, _she's a looker right enough, but oh that voice, it could break glass, and not in a good way either_! Before she could butt in and begin the charade, Nancy Donafiro looked across at Michael, who was removing the blood-pressure cuff from Rafe's arm.

"Oh! Mio Dio! You're a medico? What is wrong with my beloved?" she shrieked.

"I'm afraid when I arrived today, my client was very much the worse for wear, complaining of chest pains. I called _my_ private doctor here to attend him, I'm extremely concerned that your bullying and excitable behaviour is making him _ill_," Charles-Henry said, stalking across to confront her.

"Oh no, no, surely? Dottore, is there something wrong with my husband?" Nancy directed her question at Michael, having turned away from Charles-Henry.

"Mr Charteris' blood pressure is sky-high. Were you aware he has a hereditary heart-condition?" Michael began in the gravest tones.

Nancy shook her head, "No, no, his Papa, he dies of bad heart, but no, not my beloved Rafe!" she threw up her hands in horror.

"Well, I'm afraid it looks very much like Mr Charteris _has_ inherited his father's condition. It's known as Brugada Syndrome, which means the heart has an electrical fault, and in turn can result in ventricular fibrillation, a heart-attack, which without intervention can be fatal. Unfortunately the irregularities can begin without warning, thus I was just about to suggest that I take Mr Charteris to the clinic to run an ECG, a trace on the heart's rhythm," Michael explained. He had a personal interest in heart problems as some of his older female patients were very risky candidates for plastics procedures due to such issues. It had been the reason for installing an ECG in the clinic in the first place.

"Oh mio Dio!" Nancy gasped again, crossing herself rapidly, "My beloved husband, I did not know! Oh forgive your Nancy, per favore! I love you, I do, ti amo!" she said, holding her arms out towards him. Rafe stiffened visibly.

"Don't lie to me, Nancy, just because the doctor and his colleague here haven't seen you verbally tearing me to shreds and threatening to discredit me, does not mean they're unaware of how you treat me! This is _your_ fault! If I die of a seizure, it will be down to you! So much for your desire to avenge your mother! You would have me killed would you?" he growled, then coughed violently.

"Rafe, beloved husband, you're sick, you're saying things you don't mean, mi amore!" Nancy smiled uneasily and turned to the others, "He's just worrying, he gets a bit sciocco… in English, ah, mad, foolish! Mad dogs and Englishmen, eh?" Nancy continued her self-effacing act.

Scarlet could see by her exaggerated mannerisms that she was trying desperately to convince them Rafe was in the wrong and not her. "Miss…er, Mrs Charteris?" she began. Nancy spun round to look at her. "It's clear you're quite upset by this yourself, perhaps it would be wise if you let Dr Morton and I carry out the ECG, then we will be able to give you a more informed opinion. There are drugs to treat this condition, but without following the correct procedures we cannot begin the treatment, do you see?" Scarlet had affected a soft but authoritative voice, "By the way, I'm Dr Winters, I work at the same clinic as Dr Morton. Mr Ravenhurst here employs our services for many of his legal clients."

Nancy seemed taken off-guard by this cool female in her grey coat and high boots. "Ah, certamente, yes, si, you should take him to the clinic. I shall go to my apartment, call me with the results, per favore?" she asked.

"Rest assured we will contact you once we know more," Scarlet soothed. "Isn't that right, Dr Morton?" she added, giving Michael a knowing smirk.

"Yes," Michael began, again in a serious tone, "It is imperative that we match the treatment to the condition. This is a very dangerous condition for anyone to suffer from, we would appreciate your cooperation."

"Si, si, I will leave you, mi amore, do not _die_ on me!" Nancy cooed. Rafe visibly shivered as she blew him a kiss and stalked out of the room.

As she left, Charles-Henry bolted the door. They stood in silence until they heard the bang of the lower street door and the sound of heels on the gritted pavement outside. "Oh Rafe, what have you done? That woman's not fit to be in polite company!" Scarlet exclaimed, "I can see why you're suicidal!"

"And it looks as if she's decided on our con for us. Heart-attack it is then," Michael sighed. "This _has_ to go according to plan, or I'll end up in jail along with our friend Brook!"

Charles-Henry decided to accompany the three of them to the clinic. When they returned through the walkway from Lexham House, there was a large tow-truck in the middle of the clinic carpark. The operator was winching the mangled remains of the Aston Martin onto the trailer, and the firemen were beginning to sweep up the debris left behind. The police car was still there, and when they reached the front door, Constable Wallace was on duty. He waved them in as Michael explained this was an emergency patient. Charles-Henry raised an eyebrow in a quizzical fashion, "Do I take it you have troubles of your own, Dr Morton?" he said.

"You could say that, but we need a detective, not a lawyer," Michael replied, as Scarlet Ribbon walked in front of them, holding Rafe's arm. She had made sure he'd found a warm coat and boots, realising that things were very serious with her old friend. Agnes was at the desk, looking flushed, "Oh Dr Morton, thank goodness you're back! I've had nothing but hassle on the phones from the press! I just told them no comment! _He's_ at it again, Brook, it's all over Twitter! He must have been watching when it happened!" she gasped.

"That man! He better hope the Met get him before I do!" Michael retorted, "I hope you kept a note of who called, then I can get Simon Brogden to issue them a proper statement."

"Yeah, I always do, Boss, that detective is still here by the way, he went off down to the basement with Dr Mellifer about an hour ago and I haven't seen them since," Agnes explained.

"Ok, thanks Agnes, you can tell them I have a patient, I'll be in the small treatment room," Michael told her. "By the way, this gentleman here is a lawyer, I think it would be a good idea for you to tell him everything we've now told you, he might be able to give us some free advice about our blackmailer," he added, "Charles-Henry Ravenhurst, this is Agnes Woodson, our receptionist."

Agnes stared up into Charles-Henry's face admiringly, "Hello, Mr Ravenhurst, you better sit over here, this is some story!" she said, indicating the other rotating office chair next to hers behind the desk.

"Thank you, Miss Woodson, I shall be intrigued to hear it," he answered politely, striding around to sit beside her.

Very soon Rafe had his shirt off and a number of plastic suckers attached to his chest with wires that connected to the electrocardiograph machine. Scarlet commented on Rafe's skinny frame, "Don't tell me you've been starving yourself too? Oh Rafe, this is awful, the sooner we get you out of that woman's clutches, the better!"

"Food's not really of interest to me right now," Rafe said glumly.

"Sounds like a course of anti-depressants would make a difference, but then, I'm a plastic surgeon, not a GP. Do you have your own doctor?" Michael asked.

"Fraid not, Doc, too scared, like I said. There's still the family doctor at home, he knows the whole history of the Ravenhurst male line's heart problems," Rafe explained.

"He should be the first person you go and see after this," Michael told him, and Rafe nodded slowly. "Right, I'm just going to switch on the machine and get a good reading, hopefully we'll see a perfectly normal trace." With that he flicked a few switches on the ECG and then walked behind Rafe to watch the print out. The tracer needles began to quiver and jump across the paper, tracing out lines showing the heart function. Scarlet looked at Michael's face anxiously, but he just kept his attention on the printout as the paper slowly fed through. After what seemed like an age, Michael switched off the machine and pulled off the printout. He was smiling.

"For a man who probably has every chance of suffering any number of nasty aliments because of his disregard for a healthy lifestyle, you have an amazingly robust heart. It's a perfectly normal reading, no blips, defects or the like. If you _did_ have Brugada Syndrome, there would most definitely be an irregular trace," Michael said.

Rafe's amber eyes brightened, "Well I never! So it did skip our generation! Mother will be so relieved when I tell her. So it's safe to play our little game, eh?"

"Hardly, but it's certainly possible."

"Good, now, you better make sure_ your_ will is in order so that harpie doesn't grab your house and all the rest of it! Just imagine if your beloved Clarice fell into her hands!" Scarlet said to Rafe, referring to his antique sports car.

"Oh Heaven forbid! Yes, right, Charles-Henry and I will have a proper talk," Rafe turned to Michael, "Many thanks Doc, you've scotched one of my lifelong fears today."

"Glad to be of service, now, my main advice is _stop_ drinking and smoking and get some decent food in your belly! I've met your type before, they're usually younger, stock brokers, people in risky jobs, all high on adrenaline, living on cigarettes and Mars bars. Scarlet, maybe you should take Rafe to Claridge's, it would do him good," Michael swung a look in Scarlet's direction.

"He only has to ask. Anyway, how do we go about this then?" she replied.

"Well, someone suffering arrhythmia is always more likely to fainting fits, which can bring on a heart-attack. Also, there are 'pre-syncope' episodes, precursors to fainting where the sufferer loses coordination, falls over, feels dizzy or sick, and has a racing pulse. A strong dose of Prazosin, which a GP might prescribe for high blood pressure, would cause such side-effects. Now, I don't have that drug here, I'd have to get it, and I'd be taking a risk, but one prescription shouldn't cause too much suspicion. The good news, if we can call it that, is that there's plenty Zemuron in the clinic, it's an intravenous muscle relaxant used before surgery. I would use that to fake the heart-attack. Not only will you lose all ability to move your muscles, but it will severely diminish your breathing. Somehow we'll have to be on hand because if I don't intervene, you'll be dead in about four minutes," Michael explained in a serious tone.

"Sounds like a job for one of my techie friends, apparently phone lines are not difficult to reroute," Scarlet said cheerfully, as Rafe gaped uneasily.

"Well, I suppose if we are going to have to be drastic, I should do it over at Nancy's place so as not to arouse suspicion that it's a set-up! Then we need a fake hospital for me to "die" in, that's no problem either, I know people for that. Michael, can we try the first option tomorrow? I'll go over to hers and pretend to kiss and make up, then keel over on the doorstep or something. Charles-Henry can be waiting in the car, you can tell him what to do, it'll be fine!" Rafe did not sound entirely convinced, but was just desperate enough to try it.

Michael had finished removing the electrodes from Rafe's chest, "Alright, I'll give you a prescription for the Prazosin, which you can get at a pharmacy, get it today, then call Scarlet and I will pass on the instructions for the dosage. Otherwise, I have to go and check that Laurence and Inspector Lestrade haven't got lost down in the bowels of this place. Whatever I tell you, do _not_ take any more, because you will make yourself very ill, and I will get the blame!" he told him, grabbing a prescription pad from the top drawer of a steel cabinet in the corner of the room.

Laurence Mellifer and Greg Lestrade were standing in Gloucester Road tube station, much to the latter's surprise. "That's amazing! I can see why the civil defence and Cold War guys liked this, how deep did we go?"

"At least 100ft, the known DLS's are between 100 and 200ft, and they were around Piccadilly and Southwark. This one really was top secret, because it was for the bigwigs, not the ordinary plebs! So there's no way any lunatic killer would find it either!" Laurence enthused as they ambled along the platform, unconcerned by the odd looks from passengers at Laurence's blue medical scrubs.

"Incredible, and we've walked, what, about a mile?" Lestrade supposed.

"0.7 miles," Laurence said, showing Lestrade his watch which had a pedometer display.

"Very clever. And that tunnel had a huge open bit below this, space for all kinds of activities. Ok, I think you'd be safe enough down here then, just don't blab about it," Lestrade said. "By the way, if my ex-wife gives me any grief, I'll be down here to hide from her, that ok?" he grinned.

"Anytime, come and see me and I'll get you spare keys!" Laurence replied.

They took the escalator up to ground level then from Gloucester Road, they crossed Cromwell Road, a busy dual carriageway, and walked past a huge terrace of Georgian buildings, a Sainsbury's supermarket, round the corner of the Majestic Hotel, and turned left into Pennant Mews again. The fire engine and tow truck had now left the carpark; all that remained of the explosion was a charred patch in Michael's parking space. Constable Wallace was still on the door. He nodded to Lestrade, "Hello sir, I didn't realise you'd come out."

"Yeah, round the back," he said and looked knowingly at Laurence. "All ok here?"

"Seems so, Dr Morton was out and then came back with an emergency patient he said. Miss Summers and another man were with them. Think I've seen him before, might be a lawyer actually, sure he's been at the High Court," Wallace observed.

"Thanks. What did the fire investigators say?"

"Not much, just that if you wanted a report, to contact Fire Officer Gordon," Wallace replied.

"Ok, will do."

Inside, Agnes was talking in an animated fashion to the tall, well-dressed man that was Charles-Henry Ravenhurst. Scarlet Ribbon had already left with Rafe to take him home via the chemist. Michael Morton came out from the door to the treatment rooms just as Laurence and Lestrade entered.

"Inspector, so, what did you think of Laurence's hidey hole? Not that I've ever been down there," he said.

"Impressive. I'd keep that schtumm if I were you. I'm going back to Scotland Yard to get the fire investigator's report on your car, and I'll be back in touch once I've had a chance to find out what else my officers have uncovered about our friend Brook. I guess you'll be ok to go home whenever you like, Constable Wallace will be keeping an eye on the clinic tonight. But take very good care, anything suspicious happens, or if Brook makes any attempt to contact either of you or the other members of staff, let me know. Here's my contact details," Lestrade said, handing a business card to Michael. He left soon after. Agnes looked up, "Dr Morton, can I please go home? I'll be safe enough, Rocky'll make short work of any villains!" she said, referring to her dog, a Husky-Alsatian cross with a particularly vicious temper.

"Yes, alright, I hope you haven't been boring Mr Ravenhurst," Michael smiled at her.

"Nah, Chas and me have been getting acquainted. He seems to think we've a water-tight case for blackmail against Richard Brook, even if the cops can't prove he blew up your car," Agnes replied, beaming.

"Indeed, Aggie is quite correct. I would be happy to represent you should the police finally apprehend this creature. He sounds as if he is in need of psychiatric help!" Charles-Henry added.

_Chas_? Gee, typical Agnes, she gets everyone down to her level, Michael mused. "That's good. I doubt we'd have any money to pay you, considering we're still on borrowed time with our finances."

"It would be on a no-win-no-fee basis, since you are aiding my cousin's cause. I am confident we would win such a case, though, Dr Morton," Charles-Henry said, peering over his silver-rimmed spectacles like a studious owl.

"We'll just see about that, then, should the need arise. Ok, I think it's time we all risked going home. Hopefully it will be business as usual tomorrow," Michael said.

Soon the staff had gathered themselves together and started leaving in pairs; Alanna and Maurice walked towards Earl's Court tube station as they both took the same line home; Julie and Chantal walked along to the nearby bus stop on Cromwell Road; Agnes declared that 'Chas' would share a taxi with her. Laurence appeared in his cycling gear, wheeling his bike outside and heading towards the lane into Lexham House car park. Michael was standing alone on the Mews apart from Constable Wallace who assured him he would be there for another few hours until a relief officer arrived.

_Well, better phone the insurance company, they aren't going to be happy_, Michael thought to himself. But he stood for a moment longer, looking around him, up to the terraces of the other buildings on the Mews, across at the hideous modern edifice of Sun Alliance Insurance which completely blocked the view of Cromwell Road from the Mews, and then down onto Marloes Road and the red brick blocks of Sherborne Court and Pentland House. If Brook had been here earlier, there were so many places he could have hidden. He decided to be brave and headed off towards Earl's Court himself, where he would take the Piccadilly Line direct to Osterley and then walk home.

When Lestrade got back to his office, there was a post-it note stuck in the middle of his computer monitor. The writing was small, but just decipherable, "_Seen I.A. she knows possible suspect for KB, need to talk, NOW!_" It was Molly's writing. Where was she? He decided to try the most obvious place, the police mortuary. The room was in pitch darkness, with only a dull shine coming from the stainless steel operating tables. "Hello? Anybody there? It's Greg," he whispered loudly.

There was a distinct click and suddenly the fluorescent lightning tubes glowed into life. Molly had been standing behind the door. In her hand was a medical grade saw. "Thank goodness it's only you!" she sighed.

"Er, kinda relieved myself, what the heck are you doing with that?" Lestrade asked, as Molly lowered her weapon of choice.

"Hoping to defend myself from lunatics. I think I need to tell you everything, cos I think Irene knows now. I have to tell you what Mycroft told me not to, because Irene knows the man who is most likely responsible for Kate Burrell's death, as it wasn't Richard Brook," Molly told him.

"Ah. Ok, you want to lock this door then?" Greg gestured, shutting it behind him.

Molly nodded. She put down the saw on a nearby trolley which was full of other equipment for dissection, and pulled her keys from her pocket. Greg sat himself down on a stool, and Molly leaned back against the trolley. "Now, I have to go back to the week before Sherlock and Moriarty were on the roof…" she began.

Greg was amazed to hear her confirm the story he had heard from Laurence Mellifer, and that Mycroft had already suspected Sebastian Moran as a potential ally of Richard Brook's, and possibly Kate's killer. Molly explained that she'd now told St Bart's security that the cleaner, who had been going by the name of 'Lance Miller' was a wanted criminal, and should he return to the premises, they were to detain him. She told Greg about Irene's desperate phone call and how the dominatrix had already met Moran, again, reinforcing the possibility that he had killed her friend. "Now, she isn't even supposed to be here! If Mycroft finds out I told her his brother was alive, he'll lock me up and throw away the key! But then, now we know, Moran saw Laurence and me in the middle of that operation, so he guessed anyway. Thing is, he could have warned Moriarty what was going to happen, but he didn't. So where does this leave us, Greg? Where does it leave me? I came back to the Yard because I thought it was the only safe place left that Moriarty can't just waltz into… and I mean _Richard_ Moriarty, cos Jim's dead."

"Hmm, would you believe I've heard some of your story already from Laurence Mellifer? It seems that Richard Brook, whom you're now saying is likely to be a Moriarty, put a bomb under the wheel arch of Dr Michael Morton's car at the Carisbrooke Clinic this morning. It exploded, but thankfully no-one was hurt. Your friend Laurence spotted the device and he probably saved the life of the nurse who had only been about to move the car to let their pharmacy supplier park his van. I've been at the clinic most of the day. And do you know why I ended up over there? After we'd had the results of the DNA comparison from the Kitty Riley crime scene, D.C. Western grabs me in the corridor and shows me this photo which had been posted on Twitter, by _Richard Brook himself_! Talk about an exhibitionist! Western had checked the hashtag and realised Carisbrooke Clinic was the same one where we arrested the Indian lad who'd thrown acid at his sister, the clinic she'd been treated at free of charge. _And_ Western shows me a transcript of a few hours' worth of Twitter messages from yesterday, all set off by Brook posting an image of that little toerag Lester Arnold, who we nicked months back for a spate of high-end car thefts. When I got over there, it was chaos! But don't worry, your friend's ok. Everyone's on the lookout for Brook now, so I told them to go home," Lestrade told Molly, whose eyes were wide in horror.

"But you can't! You can't just leave them without protection! Greg, I'm not leaving here until they've got Moriarty, I can't believe you're going to risk the lives of others because you think he won't do anything else today!" she insisted.

"Woah, hey, I'm on information overload here, I left a local constable looking after the Clinic, and everyone in the division and the whole of the Met should have a description of Brook by now. He can't escape, especially if you're saying there are MI5 agents after him as well! Just because Sherlock Holmes isn't here to solve everything at the drop of a hat, doesn't mean to say that the rest of us are useless! Aw Molly, come on, don't you believe in me?" Greg pleaded.

"Honestly right now? No. I believe in _him_, but you have no idea what or who Brook is. It's a good thing I spoke to Donald Western while you were out, he's been investigating his real identity _and_ trying to find out about Sebastian Moran. Just forget what I said, let's do what Sherlock would be doing if he was here. He'd be looking at everything, every tiny scrap of information, then he'd disregard the obvious, and whatever is left, however unlikely or crazy, is bound to be the truth! We'll have the reports from the crime scene officers now, so we can work on both at the same time!" Molly told him, unlocking the door.

Greg hauled himself to his feet, "Wow, never seen you so animated. You should tell your boyfriend to jump off the hospital roof more often!"

Molly swiped her hand at him, but missed, "Idiot. You're getting worse than Anderson!"

Upstairs in the divisional office, Lestrade, Western and Molly talked over the information that had been gathered. "Ok, so we got as far back as the Moriartys getting divorced, but then, I had a word with the relevant Social Work team over in Ireland, cos parents of two-year old children splitting up is bound to cause some grief, especially as it looks like Rory Moriarty took off to the States with James two months after the divorce was agreed. Take a look at this, it's a report submitted to the court on behalf of Rory Moriarty by a social worker. It details the father's reasons for wanting to take only one of his sons away from their mother," Western said, handing Lestrade a scanned copy of a document he'd been emailed.

_Mr Rory Moriarty wishes to inform the court that he seeks custody of his son, James Moriarty as he believes the child is in mortal danger from his sibling, Richard Moriarty, who is currently resident with his Mother, Bridget Moriarty (née Burke) at her mother's house in Waterford. On the first of July 1979, the twins' birthday, Mr Moriarty heard a terrible screaming coming from the boys' room. When he entered, he saw his son Richard stabbing at his son James with a pair of safety scissors. James had his hands around Richard's neck, trying to apparently fight him off. Mr Moriarty pulled the twins apart and relieved Richard of the scissors, which were stained in blood, James having sustained multiple scars to his arms and torso. Mrs Moriarty came into the room and grabbed Richard up in her arms, shouting, 'What has your son done now?' Mr Moriarty reported that he called back at her 'Your son tried to kill my James, he's insane and so are you!'_ _The argument continued, and eventually Mrs Moriarty left the house in Dublin and drove to her mother's. Mr Moriarty pointed out that this was not the first time he had witnessed his children fighting with each other. It was not just play, as they often inflicted quite severe bruises upon each other. He also said that he and his wife had not expected to have twins, even though Mrs Moriarty was a twin herself, as had her father been. Husband and wife favoured one son over the other, and it appeared as if Richard resented James for distancing him from his father. The children are only two years old, but tests have shown that both have difficulty sleeping, are constantly active, and are developing very rapidly in comparison with others their age. Mr Moriarty is convinced that his wife induces Richard, the younger twin by ten minutes, to be cruel to his brother, and believes it would be best if he were to take James away from what he considers to be a life-threatening situation. _

Lestrade was amazed; social work in the 1970s would not have been very advanced, and yet here was a suggestion of ADHD, mental illness and seriously disturbed adults too! Western could see his superior's surprised look. "Have a read of the next page, it's the psychologist's report on the mother," he commented.

"_Bridget Burke has a history of mental disorder; she had been admitted several times to a psychiatric ward at Dublin's General Hospital for EST as a fifteen year old. She appears to have a form of manic depression, characterised by periods of obsessive activity followed by total catatonia. She was given a course of anti-psychotic drugs which were to be regularly reviewed by her GP and psychiatrist. She is now twenty-six years old and appears to have had a severe depressive episode after the birth of her children. Bridget confessed to the team that she disliked her son James, and preferred Richard. She believed that her husband was actively trying to cause James to harm his sibling. Despite many attempts to convince her this was not the case, her mother and husband despaired. Her behaviour and mental state is very unstable; she admits she has not taken any of her medication since the pregnancy. Our conclusion is that Bridget Burke should not be left in sole charge of a child as young as Richard at the present time. Although impossible to determine at this stage, having observed the children, we believe there is a strong potential they have inherited their mother's mental illness."_

"You couldn't get off with saying that today!" Greg gasped, "I mean, woah, they're basically saying that two babies are mad freaks just because their mother had shock therapy when she was a teenager. But, I suppose, if no-one helped set them on the right road… and you said that after Bridget Burke died, they had to take Richard into psychiatric care? Poor kid, if he'd just seen his mother fall down the stairs, no wonder he flipped his lid!"

"But Greg, _look_ what it says about Bridget's death. There were scrape marks on the stair tread consistent with wear patterns on her shoes. It suggested she had resisted. Somebody pushed her. That mixed up little boy is a murderer, just like his brother. Think about it, he's been dragged away from his Dad and his brother. Maybe he blames his Mum _and_ James for screwing up his relationship with his Dad? He's ten, but he remembers when he tried to get rid of his brother, he sees his Mum standing in the way of him getting back to his Dad and having another go at his brother. It is very, very sad, but it explains something, why they're both consummate actors. Jim fooled me completely, but then, he probably thought I was a sad cow who was desperate for a man! And Richard is an actor by profession, who has often worked on children's TV shows. He's kept close to the environment that reminds him of his desire, to get rid of his brother. Now I don't claim to be a psychologist, but I think it happened like this – Moran and Moriarty are plotting to bring about Sherlock Holmes' downfall. Moran notices this guy who looks exactly like his boss, finds out he's an actor, suggests to Moriarty that they use him as part of the plan. Moran contacts Richard Brook and finds him _very_ amenable to the plan. Then Moran finds out that the likely result of the showdown is Sherlock will survive, what other reason would there be to create a body double? Moran gets a little greedy, thinks he can take over his boss's empire by using this lookalike actor to become Moriarty and keep the charade going. What Moran doesn't know is Richard has known all along this is the hated brother he has waited a long time to destroy. He goes along with Moran, but if he clears up all the evidence that his brother is definitely dead, he can take over from him without any trouble. Maybe he knows where his father is, maybe he's going to visit him and pretend to be Jim, cos Jim was Daddy's favourite, then he'll have what he wanted all along, as well as all the ill-gotten riches he ever dreamed of. Getting rid of Moran shouldn't be too hard, but he'll keep him around for now. How am I doing with my deduction?" Molly asked, stopping for breath.

Greg nodded his head, "Sounds good, doesn't it, Constable? She's not just a pretty face, eh?"

"But it _does_ sounds right, boss. This means that Richard Moriarty is as much a danger as his brother ever was. Question is, do we share this with your MI5 man?" Western asked.

_Mycroft!_ _There was always the fly in the ointment. Telling him would mean more secrets, more cover-ups, _Greg wasn't sure he wanted to be Mycroft's lap dog. "No. This is a police investigation, we're trying to pin Kitty Riley's murder on this nutter, and Moran's a good bet for Kate Burrell. We'll get them for that. I think Sherlock Holmes is taking care of himself without our help," Greg said definitely. "And you, my girl, come home with me if you're scared, I do have a firearm there!"

Molly blushed a little, "Oh, er, thanks for the offer, Greg, but I think I'd better catch up with Laurence Mellifer, I'd feel better supporting my old college mate. And guns are dangerous. The type of person Laurence is, his place will be wired up like a Christmas tree, nobody is going to be sneaking up on him."

The phone rang and Western picked it up; "Hello, CID? You have? Oh, wow, that's good news, yep, I'll tell Lestrade, thanks!"

"What's the news?" Greg asked, suddenly on alert.

"They've arrested Sebastian Moran. He came back into St. Bart's for his shift, where he'd been working under the name of Miller as a cleaner, and he's kicking off. They're bringing him down here in a van," Western told him.

Molly sighed with relief, "Thank goodness for that! Without Moran, Richard Brook isn't going to know everything! Right, I'm off now, before anything else happens."

**Chapter 11**

Having signed out, Molly buttoned up her quilted coat and exited the main door of New Scotland Yard onto Broadway, in London's Victoria district. While she was dithering about taking the Tube or a taxi, a black cab drew up at the pavement, dropped a passenger, and the driver then hailed her, "Here, Miss, you looking for a lift?"

"Er, yeah, Nightingale Lane, Clapham, if that's ok?" Molly said, seeing the man's face, a sort of grizzled, sallow one with high cheekbones. He wore a leather cheese-cutter hat over a mop of black hair. Seemed friendly enough, Molly thought.

"No problems, Miss, ahm not like some taxi drivers that won't go south of the river! Get in then, you'll freeze your buns off standin' there!" he replied cheerily.

Molly tittered nervously and got into the cab. She looked out of the window as it drew away from the kerb and headed onto Victoria Street. From there the cabbie turned down Vauxhall Bridge Road which would then take them across the Thames.

"More snow on the way the forecasters are saying," the cabbie called from the front.

"Oh no, I hope not. It just makes life difficult here in London, don't you think?" Molly answered, as she turned back and saw his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

"Yeah, silly really, them Norwegians and Canadians got no trouble with it, just whip out the snow chains and away they go," he chuckled. "My nan's brother, he emigrated to Canada in the 60s, lived away up in the North, never missed a day's work for snow, they could teach us a thing or two!"

"Mm, I'm sure," Molly replied politely, for once not minding the cheerful banter characteristic of their local taxi drivers, as all she felt was supreme relief that Moran was out of the picture. He could no longer direct Richard Brook… or rather, Richard Moriarty.

"Here, that was the Met we left, you work there?" the cabbie continued, breaking her revere.

"Um yes, I'm a pathologist, I look after the bodies," she replied. Molly saw the dark brows of her questioner rise in the reflection of the mirror.

"Cor, like them CSI programmes?" he exclaimed.

"Well, not quite! We can't find things out in five minutes like they do there. It takes a good few hours to do a post-mortem examination. Most policemen can't stomach it," Molly smiled smugly.

"Woah, I bet they can't. I'd be fascinated with that though, my brother, works down Smithfield Market, always hauling carcasses about, blood under his nails, he showed me their abattoir once, really interestin', saw his mate gut a cow, but this was a 'kosher' order, ye see, for the Jews? They let the blood first, 'stead of poleaxing the beast," the cabbie described.

"Mm, yes, they don't eat meat with the blood in it, it's against their religion," Molly confirmed, having learned from several Jewish doctors in St. Bart's.

"There now, Clapham Road, the snow ploughs have been, it was mad this mornin', cars skittering about like dodgems," the cabbie commented, as he took the turn off South Lambeth Road, near the entrance to Stockwell Tube station. They made quick progress to the Common, and took the south side road to Molly's street.

"If you could just stop before the pelican crossing, I'm at Clapham Mansions, that'll be fine," Molly directed, as the taxi trundled along past the snow-covered Common on the right, and the red-brick terraces on the left.

"No bother at all, Miss," drawing up at the edge of the pavement. He had left open the plastic partition between the seats, so Molly leaned over and paid the fare. She jumped out at the pavement side, and just caught sight of the cabbie giving her a wave. Without thinking, she turned and raised her hand. Something seemed suddenly familiar about that face, the eyes, the cheekbones. Molly looked at the crumpled five pound note in her hand; she unravelled it and found a bit of paper inside it. _'You still count. Take care.'_ Before she could call out, the taxi sped away along Nightingale Lane. The words sounded inside her head, in _his_ voice, he was watching over her, like the mighty archangel Gabriel. No harm would come while he was around. She rushed inside the flats and up to her own door, she would check on Laurence, but now she felt much happier about being in her own little nest.

Laurence Mellifer liked everything to be in its place. It helped him keep calm, to stay in control of his condition. Entering the back door, having locked his bike in the shed, he knew instantly something was wrong. He carefully put his cycle helmet over the nearby coathook, and lowered his rucksack to the hall floor. Laurence listened intently. He knew every sound of this house; the central heating, the way the water would gurgle in the pipes every hour; the ticking clocks, the electrical buzz from his stereo and the DVD harddrive recorder, the hum of the fridge freezer, and even, to his sensitive ears, the slow click of the electricity meter as it cycled around the display. There was another sound, one that didn't belong, a presence which was unwelcome. _Somebody's here_. He backed slowly out of the still open rear door and fled down the street, avoiding passing the front of the house.

Into the rear hallway walked Richard Brook. He hadn't reckoned on Laurence's hyper-sensitive nature. _Missed him!_ He ambled out of the house, pulling the door shut behind him. He could see the wide-spaced footprints back down the path and onto the main pavement. Richard followed them.

Laurence always feared this happening again; as a teenager, he was often convinced he was being followed, but now, he knew this was real. He had to focus on getting away, on confusing the person coming behind him. He leapt off the pavement, seeing that it stopped the trail of footprints. He took strides across the road, ensuring he stepped where there were gaps in the snow. He leapt again over the pavement, and scrambled onto a low wall for a few yards. Jumping down onto Woodlawn Road, he sprinted in between the parked cars until he reached Harbord Street. At the end he was faced with the large edifice of Craven Cottage Park, Fulham F.C.'s home ground. Down the side of the Stevenage Road entrance was the lane which lead to the River, the Thames Path. It had all been cleared of snow, the football club's groundsmen probably having cleared up for that evening's mid-week game. He dashed down the lane, his heart racing, the icy air searing his lungs. Thames Path ran for miles. If he kept going in this direction, Laurence knew he would reach Putney Bridge. The further he went, he realised the tree-lined river walkway was entirely snow-free, allowing him to run as fast as he could.

Richard Brook came to the junction of Queensmill and Woodlawn roads, and saw the distinctive large shoe prints stop. He crossed the road and looked for them again, slowly ambling down past the brightly-lit windows of the houses either side. He then noticed a little further, the snow had been disturbed at the edge of a wall, and there was the same distinctive pair of prints, just one set, indicating he'd landed there off the wall and run back onto the road. There was something to be said for what Richard had learned in the Scouts about tracking. He had been sure that one day he could use these skills to find his Dad.

Laurence found two empty plastic bags blowing about. He stuck his feet into them and tied them around his ankles. He was practically level with Bishop's Park, which contained a huge concrete bowl-shaped skate park. Laurence ran off the path into the trees, heading diagonally across Bishop's Avenue till he spotted the allotments, an absolutely huge expanse of plots, sheds, and other gardening paraphernalia which stood opposite the Fulham Palace estate. He would find somewhere to hide there, surely!

Richard had now reached the foot of Woodlawn Road, unable to pick up any further shoe prints. He saw that in front of them were the Bishop's Park Tennis courts. He was unfamiliar with this area, and cursed himself for not checking it out earlier. Laurence had already located an old shipping container which was open, and had climbed inside, pulling the large door behind him.

Richard heard a metallic creaking noise, and looked up. He walked into the allotments and tried to guess where it had come from, picking his way between the dark plots. Some sheds had fairy lights strung around their roofs, so it helped him to not fall into chicken wire or coldframes half-hidden by other junk left by the owners.

Laurence could hear footsteps. He shone the tiny torch on his keyring into the gloom and saw the container was playing host to a large number of full potato sacks. _Help, what should I do? I could hide under the sacks, but then, I'd have no way of escaping. _Laurence decided instead to stay by the doors and watch through the hairline gap between them. There it was again, distinct thumping footsteps, as if someone was deliberately picking their way towards him. He felt sick, he scratched his arms furiously under his Gortex jacket.

It was difficult to decide what was just a store and what was a luxury shed, as Richard realised there was a huge variety of cobbled-together buildings which would never have passed muster to a planner, yet some had the most ingenious contents, as he could see through panes of Perspex and glass. Laurence was here, he knew it.

Laurence could see a figure in black. He realised he had no idea what Richard Brook looked like, but he knew this was not the nosy cleaner from the hospital. This man was tall, though not as tall as he was. At six foot, Laurence was even three inches taller than his colleague Michael Morton. The figure picked his way slowly between the plots. _Hellfire, I hope he doesn't come here_!

Richard saw the large blue shipping container loom out of the darkness. The white lettering from the original manufacturer glowed out of the frosty air. _Well, what have we here, a perfect hidey hole?_ He advanced towards it.

Laurence saw the figure stop, look up at the container and then walk directly towards it. _Oh hell, I'm dead_! He bit his lip. Then he remembered his keys! He took the longest one, the shed key and shoved it tight between his middle fingers, grasping the rest in his fist. He could stab Brook with it and get away.

Richard saw the doors on the left side were padlocked. He walked around to try the other side. Laurence held his breath as he heard the sounds of feet moving around the container. _Ah, now here we are,_ the Irishman said to himself, and pulled at one of the large steel doors on the blue container.

"Argh!" Laurence yelled, and launched himself at his pursuer.

"Laurence! Stop, it's me! It's Michael!" Laurence suddenly realised he was wrestling with his colleague.

"Michael? What the heck are you doing? You frightened me half to death! Brook's out there, he was in my house, I'm sure of it! We've got to move, now!" Laurence exclaimed.

"I know, I saw him following you. I couldn't stop worrying, so I got the old Morris Minor out of my garage at home and drove to yours. I saw you fly down the drive like there were tigers on your tail, then Brook followed. He was so intent on you, he never noticed me. I guessed you would head for the river, so I drove straight along past the football ground, and stopped at the tennis courts. I saw you as you ran past the skate park with the bags over your shoes, and thought, _Laurence is in trouble_. Brook kept on walking down Woodlawn Road. He might be out there, but he's hardly going to tackle two of us. Do you want to get out of here, or do we get him ourselves?" Michael explained quickly.

"We run!" Laurence gaped and tore the bags off his trainers. They looked outside the orange container where Laurence had been hiding. "Look, there's somebody over there, in the distance, by that blue container. I didn't see it to begin with, let's go!"

The two men ran indiscriminately across the allotments, leaping over fences and wires. They could hear someone shout at them, but they kept going until they hit Bishop's Avenue again and Michael waved frantically towards his ancient Morris Minor which had thankfully coughed into life when he'd taken it out of the garage for the first time in three months. "It's open, get in!" he yelled. Laurence reached the Morris first and dived into the passenger seat. Michael leapt into the driver's seat and jammed the key in the ignition.

Laurence looked behind him, "He's heading this way! Hurry up!"

"I'm trying, you can't rush this old bird like I could the Aston!" Michael retorted, and slowly turned the key while depressing the accelerator pedal. The Morris growled deeply and revved into life first time. Turning the Morris's huge steering wheel, Michael could hear the tyres crunch on the icy road surface. Just as he pulled away from the side of the lane, they heard a banging noise.

"It's him! He's banging on the window!" Laurence yelled.

Michael floored the accelerator and the Morris lurched forward, leaving Richard Brook floundering on the ground. "Ok, enough, we're going straight to Molly's, she won't be safe either, where does she live?"

"Well, I think it's by Clapham Common."

"Call her, I'll head in that direction meantime!"

Richard rolled over and clambered to his feet. "Damn your luck! I know where you both live! Molly's next, I'll clear up, don't you worry!" he roared after them in frustration.

Molly was shocked when she got Laurence's call. Having directed them to Clapham Mansions, she stood on the step of the main entrance, watching as the old blue Morris Minor came down the far side of the car park and slithered to a halt in the empty space beside her. She was now in her jeans and Arran jumper. "Come in, quickly!" she ordered, as Michael locked the car.

Soon after, Laurence and Michael sank gratefully into Molly's old sofa which was draped in a Paisley-patterned shawl. "Look, we're ok, someone I trust is out there, keeping an eye on us," Molly assured them. "I can't believe Brook would just break into your house and hang about waiting for you, though, that's horrible!"

"Urgh! Believe me, I'll have to scrub the place from top to bottom. _No-one_ does that to me! No-one! Everybody I know is aware I cannot _cope_ with interference, my space is sacrosanct!" Laurence moaned. "Uh, by the way, this is my colleague from the Clinic, Michael Morton, he just saved my life right now!"

"Another guardian angel! Oh, was it you who had your car blown up today? Where did the Morris come from?" Molly asked, remembering Lestrade's comment.

"Yes, it was me, and Brook is prime suspect for that too. The car outside used to belong to my Dad, it's been in my garage all this time, I was restoring it. It's a miracle it started really, because I hadn't even looked at the spark plugs since October!" Michael gasped.

"Ok, ok, the door's locked, I'm going to make some tea, help us all calm down," Molly told them and went through the lounge to the kitchen. She had a ground floor flat which looked directly out onto Clapham Common. The Mansions dated from the early Victorian era, but Molly had attempted to make the most of the cosy aspect, while retaining the original coving and ceiling rose in this room. The kitchen was at the back of the building through another room which appeared to function as a dining room and office, as Michael noted the table covered in textbooks and notes, mainly of a forensic nature.

Michael sucked his inhaler rapidly, the sprint from the allotments to the car having taken its toll on his lungs. He wheezed in between breaths, but eventually felt the buzz of the salbutamol sinking onto his lungs and calming his chest. "I'm getting too old for this nonsense," he sighed.

"You? What about me? That scumbag has undone months, if not years of hard work and retraining my brain to cope with everyday life. My house was where I could just _be_, now he's ruined it. You were right, this Brook is far too clever by half! How can I concentrate on my work knowing he's out there?" Laurence exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, old chum, it's not good, is it?" Michael said, patting his friend's shoulder.

Meanwhile, Molly was in the kitchen. She happened to look out of the window and a face appeared. She shrieked, but then she recognised him. It was the cabbie…it was Sherlock Holmes! Michael asked her what was wrong. "Nothing, nothing, he's here! Hold on," she replied delightedly. Molly ran out of the flat and down the corridor to the back door of her block. Opening it, she found him standing there. "Funny place to get a taxi fare!" he said in the cabbie's voice.

"Oh get inside! Brook is out there, he's Jim Moriarty's twin brother, and he's driving us all mad!" Molly gasped, and pulled Sherlock in by the arm.

"I've been watching. So has Mycroft. It would seem Richard Moriarty is double the horror his brother was. So, you still angry at me?" he asked, smiling, and his features visibly relaxed until he was entirely recognisable as Sherlock Holmes.

"Er, well, I'm not sure. Don't tell me you saw me at the cemetery?"

Sherlock nodded. "I've been in London all the time. One thing the Moriarty brothers do _not_ specialise in is hiding in _plain sight_. Mycroft is furious with me, of course, but I could not abandon you, not after what you did for me," he said. His eyes were bright, as if he was a dog hot on a scent.

"Never mind that now, I have my best friend from college, Laurence Mellifer, the man who replicated your face, and his colleague, Michael Morton in the flat, frightened for their lives. Brook has not only been trying to blackmail them, but he put a bomb under Michael's car outside their clinic this morning. He killed Kitty, the journalist, and Jim's crony, Sebastian Moran has also killed Irene Adler's PA, Kate Burrell. I did the post mortem on her. It's chaos, and I can't fix this without you! Lestrade's hopeless, he's just hanging about, no wonder you used to get so fed up with them!" Molly exploded.

"Alright, it would seem there is a mass of data, but no analysis. Let's go then," he said. Molly was amazed as Sherlock squeezed her hand in passing.

He breezed into the flat, Molly pulling the door shut behind them and locking it. He sat down on the arm chair facing the sofa and looked intently at Michael and Laurence. They looked back at him, this tall, skinny young man with a ghostly pale complexion and marine-blue eyes. Laurence couldn't stand it, he jumped to his feet and followed Molly back into the kitchen.

"Mid-fifties, reasonably healthy though, you ride a bike sometimes, only you've been spoiled recently by having a new car, something befitting a surgeon's status, Jaguar, no, Aston Martin. You're single, you live out of town, and you suffer from asthma," Sherlock said at last.

Michael smiled, "You're very good. Let me try and unpick this. You guessed my age by comparing me with Laurence, who you know was a fellow student of Molly's, maybe you even knew he and I met when I'd already been working for ten years at the Royal Free Hospital. Health? Living out of town? Less lines on my face than the average Londoner, and I've got a bit of a wind-burned tan from so many years cycling. The car… ah, my keys are in my hand, there's an Aston Martin key fob on the ring, just a bit hidden in my fingers, asthma, obvious, I'm wheezing like an old accordion, and I've still got the Ventolin inhaler in my other hand, not so sure how you guessed I'm single though," he explained, watching Sherlock's eyes brighten.

"Hmm, well done, Dr Morton. You're very aware of your surroundings, which is good, that will save you in the end. I guessed you were single because of what you're wearing. These are the clothes you wear at home, your t-shirt has probably been on two days in a row, there's a little splash of tea on the neckband. And your jeans – I take it you own a sewing machine, because I can see the new machined hem, not the manufacturer's one, the thread is red, starkly contrasting to the blue. If a woman had taken up that hem, she would have used blue thread, and a woman would not let her husband be seen outdoors with a two-day old t-shirt bearing a tea-stain. You're your own man, Dr Morton, slightly better organised than my friend John Watson, who is also a doctor, yet cannot darn so much as a sock," Sherlock said, in a confident tone.

Michael was quite intrigued. Some would have found this young man arrogant, but he was just supremely at ease with his own abilities to read people. As medical students they had always been taught to pay attention to symptoms, put them in context with the patient's medical history, and _ask questions_. Holmes didn't ask, he just told it like it was. That face was strong, a powerful bone structure which some males Michael knew would kill for, yet in those eyes was a spark, of nerves, agitation, which tallied with his recent brush with death.

"Take it easy on Laurence, he really doesn't cope with _direct_ people like you, he has Asperger's Syndrome. I think Richard Brook worked that out and knew even something as simple as getting into Laurence's house and sitting there would push him over the deep end. It's time we put a stop to this, don't you think?" Michael told him.

"Certainly. And I suppose I find it hard _not_ to just analyse and deduce openly, I forget that others have feelings, as Molly so fiercely reminded me last week," Sherlock replied.

Molly and Laurence came back into the living room. Molly was carrying a tray of mugs. She set it down on the coffee table in the centre of the carpet. "Now, there's milk and sugar there, you help yourselves. Sherlock, I would ask you to be on your best behaviour here, you're in _my_ house after all," Molly concluded, casting an accusing gaze at the detective.

He looked up at Laurence, "I'm sorry if I startled you. The man who was in your house is the brother of my nemesis. I thought I had done with him, but it would seem only the battle was won, not the war. We've got to keep fighting, will you help me?"

Molly was amazed by Sherlock's gentle tone, it was the way Daz, their fellow student used to talk when Laurence had had a bad day.

"Yep, course I will. Molly's reminded me, us geeks have to stick together. You seem like one of us, by that I mean, my old friends from St. George's, University of London," Laurence said, his tone calmer also.

"Excellent! We will lay a trap for him just like the one Mycroft and I laid for James Moriarty," Sherlock commented.

Michael wondered what Scarlet Ribbon would think of this, the famous Sherlock Holmes co-opting them into one of his schemes.

Scarlet and Irene were at the house in Holland Park. They had shared a bottle of E&J Gallo Rose White Zinfandel, and were progressing through a second one when Irene's mobile rang.

"Hullo," she drawled, "It's Irene's phone speaking, who's this?"

"Irene? It's Greg Lestrade here, New Scotland Yard?"

"Oh," she turned to Scarlet, who was more alert than her friend, "It's my lovely detective inspector, _Greg_."

"Better give me the phone, you're away with the fairies my sweetie," Scarlet told her, and took the mobile out of her hand. "Hello, Lestrade? It's Jenny Summers here, what's wrong?"

"We've arrested the man we strongly suspect killed Kate Burrell, I really need to interview Irene, but she sounds like she's had a lot to drink. Richard Brook, whom we now think is Richard Moriarty, is still at large. I'm still concerned for you all, do you think you could make it over to Broadway?" he said, sounding agitated.

"Er, not unless you want me to break the law. We've both been drinking, and I think it would upset Irene greatly if you tried to talk to her just now. Can't it wait till morning? Surely you can hold him for 24 hours in the initial instance?" Scarlet replied.

"Yeah, I suppose. And we'll have to wait for DNA comparison to tie him to the murder scene since he wasn't already on the database. Are you sure you're ok there? Brook is a lunatic, really, there's a serious suggestion of mental illness in their past, so he's capable of anything!" Greg warned.

"Believe me, Inspector, we are perfectly safe, I'd be worried as to what my friends outside would do to Brook if he turned up here. I'll speak to Irene, but she's really out of it now. I'll call you back if I think we'll make it. You can send that nice constable of yours for us if so," Scarlet said, matter-of-factly.

"Oh, ok, well, I'll be hearing from you," Greg answered.

"What's he saying?" Irene asked, "Have they got Moran? It's him, Molly said that Mycroft said… he's Moriarty's bosom buddy…" she threw back her head and laughed maniacally.

"It would appear so, but you're going nowhere. If he's safely under lock and key, the only person we need to be concerned about is Brook. And if I were a psychopath stalking everyone who stood in the way of me taking over a criminal empire, I'd be after the main players, so Michael and his friends are the ones in real danger. Stay there, I'll be back in a few minutes," Scarlet got up and left Irene filling up her wine glass. Going to the window, she stared into the back garden and waved her hand. A figure came out of the summer house and walked towards the French doors. Scarlet opened one door.

"We have a major problem. Brook, the troublemaker, is out there, and I think he's about to target my friends, he's not that interested in Irene and me. How quick can you mobilise your team?"

The figure she spoke to pulled a black wool balaclava off his head, "Whew, eh, pretty sharpish, I'd say, depends where," the man, who was in his thirties and had fair hair, said.

"Good. I'll find out where in two minutes, just hang on," Scarlet said. She still had Irene's phone in her hand and typed in Michael's number to the keypad.

Michael Morton was supping a mug of strong, soothing tea as Molly and Laurence confirmed with Sherlock Holmes what they all knew about Richard Moriarty. His phone rang and without thinking he took it out of his pocket and answered. "Hello?"

"Michael? It's Scarlet here, where are you?"

"Oh, hi, we're all at Molly Hooper's. We've had a night of it. Richard Brook broke into Laurence's house and was waiting for him, but he guessed and we had a bit of a hairy moment in the middle of an allotment in Fulham. And there's someone else here too, an acquaintance of Irene's so I believe. We're just trying to decide what to do," Michael explained.

"Right, I'm sending my friends over there to keep a close watch on the place. Moriarty's crony, Sebastian Moran has just been arrested, so if Brook finds out, he'll be more than desperate. These are the guys I told you about, not adverse to a little excitement. So, tell me the address. There are enough of them to keep Brook at bay until the morning anyway," Scarlet told him.

"Ohh, are you sure about this? I suppose we've not got much choice, seeing what Brook's capable of. It's number 8, Clapham Mansions, Nightingale Lane, Clapham Common. The entrance is directly opposite a pedestrian crossing, I'm not even going to ask who or what these people are, but tell them to be discrete," Michael said.

"Oh they will, don't you worry. And Michael," Scarlet began.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not a complete bitch. If I didn't care, I wouldn't do this, ok?"

Silence.

"Michael, did you hear me?"

"Mm-hm. I'll speak to you tomorrow, if we're still here," he said, quietly.

"You will be, good night," Scarlet told him.

Turning to the man in the garden, she said, "8 Clapham Mansions. They're pretty scared I think. If you see Brook, detain him, and take him to New Scotland Yard, for the attention of Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Understood."

"Put the lights out," Molly said. "We'll see if anybody is creeping about out there!"

"Think we've got a trench-mentality developing here," Michael observed, as they turned the settee around in the dark and crouched over it, peering out into the road. The street lights were high up here and cast their beams far. The main illumination came from the pedestrian crossing. The Common was inky black. Holmes sat on the floor, playing with a cigarette lighter. Molly didn't want to display her feelings there and then, so was kneeling on the settee looking out next to Laurence.

"Remember when Daz was convinced there was a ghost in the old quad at St. George's? We sat up all night in the refectory watching," she whispered to Laurence.

"Uh-huh, I remember it distinctly. The dust in there was disgusting! Daz always was a bit _gullible_," he replied, leaning his arms on the settee's back. Molly saw the nail scratches.

"That you stressing out again?" she said, leaning close to his ear.

"Don't like my space being invaded! I didn't mind you being there cos I asked you to come, but a _stranger_!" Laurence hissed back, turning to look directly into Molly's brown eyes.

Michael peered out into the night. He felt his eyes swim; there was nothing there. He slipped around and sunk back down into the seat facing into the room. "Reformed smoker?" he asked Sherlock, who was continuing to flick his lighter on and off.

"Mm, I could _kill_ for a cigarette right now. My dear friend John Watson bullied me into stopping. Nicotine is just so… nice. Well, I know logically it isn't, but smoking helped me think!" Sherlock said quietly.

"Putting my doctor's hat on, I'd be saying there are better ways of concentrating, like meditation, cycling, _mindful_ walking, that's something I've tried, and when it works, it's great, it helps me sleep like nothing else, have you heard of it?" Michael asked.

"Yes, but there is nothing I hate more than being bored. I can't empty my mind, it is the palace of my memory, containing every scrap of data I have ever acquired, ready to bring to recollection when I need it. If I have nothing to challenge my brain I tend to get very melancholy," Sherlock replied.

"Molly, have you and Sherlock got a 'thing'?" Laurence whispered very quietly.

Molly rolled her eyes, "Oh, I think I like him more than he likes me. But he doesn't know me like you do, we're the geeks, and we stick together, right?"

Laurence grinned and winked, "Geeks rule. Do you ever hear from Daz or Elsa?"

"Daz sometimes leaves inane comments on my blog. Elsa sends me postcards from various mad places, she's working for that _Medicins sans Frontiers_, so she ends up in Ethiopia, Syria, even Afghanistan! Mad as a box of frogs!" Molly said.

"Ah, she was the bravest of us all. Does she still have the hair-do?"

"Last photo of her on Facebook was blue and red streaks, she looked like a Macaw! But I love her dearly, dear, crazy Elsa!"

"Molly, if you knew somebody else liked you, how long would it take for you to decide you might like them, and maybe forget about that cold fish down there?" Laurence practically mouthed the words.

"It would all depend on the person. Now my police colleague, Greg Lestrade, the D.I., he's forever flirting with me, but he's a mess, got an ex-wife who constantly gives him the runaround, and he doesn't mean it, he just feels sorry for me. No, it would have to be someone very special to make me transfer my affections. They would have to compete with the cleverest man I know," she replied, looking away from him.

"You're blushing," he muttered.

"Really? I'm just wondering if you're being hypothetical, or you remembered something you said a long time ago. I'd actually forgotten myself until we met up again recently. The Grad Ball, we all went as a gang, but then somehow, you and I ended up together for the last dance. I was really surprised, cos I knew you hated dancing, you didn't like being so close to just _anybody_, but then, you waltzed me around the floor and I thought, gee, he's channelling Fred Astaire tonight! When I asked you about it, do you remember what you said?" Molly replied, looking away into the distance through the spectral arms of the leafless trees lining the road.

Laurence sighed, "Uh-huh."

"Well, remind me then, Geekmeister!"

He turned so he was looking directly into her face, "Love gives you dancing feet. That's what I said. Is that what you remembered?"

Molly nodded slowly. She felt a sob well up in her throat. _But I want it to be him, I want him to be like Laurence, but then, Laurence is here, what is wrong with me_? She looked back at Sherlock. Yes, he'd kissed her, yes, he'd told her she counted for him, but then, was it all still a lie? Jim lied like a champion, weren't all men liars? No, Laurence had _never_ lied to any of them, he was incapable. Being the way he was, very like Sherlock, he was honest, but he had a kind nature which evaded the detective. But then, if Laurence could train himself to cope with the worst of his condition, couldn't Sherlock do so too? Did he even acknowledge there might be something out of his control? _I bet he doesn't, I bet he thinks he's indestructible_.

"I don't know this friend of yours, Molly, but he's _hard_. I saw the way he looked at me, like he was deliberately trying to get inside my head. He wanted everything open to him! I'm not like that, I'd rather stay hidden. Yes, I'll gladly babble on about forensics or any of my other obsessions for a day and a half, but me, I'm superfluous to the story, I _do_, I don't need people to know who I am! Well, apart from you three geeks, but then, we all 'got' each other, without saying very much. I'm just saying, who do you trust?" Laurence shocked himself, he had completely forgotten that night, the last one of university, where he had been able to be open for the first time in his life. He trusted Molly so much then that he would have told her anything about himself, his secret fears and worries, and how he admired her so much, wanted to be with her, but it had never got past that comment. He'd used the word 'love' but not in the manner he realised he could have.

Molly turned, hearing these incredible words, like a confession. She stared into his eyes, so different, a warm blue, trusting, bright, no hidden corners. After everything, wouldn't it be wonderful just to start again, especially with someone she knew inside out?

Suddenly there was loud crack, like a gunshot. They all dived to the floor. "There was a shot, from outside, high up, the roof, down towards the Common," Sherlock Holmes whispered. He scrambled to his feet and slid up to the window, hiding himself with the curtain. Staring out he could see two figures running across the Common, one having come from the direction of the Mansions, in pursuit of the one who presumably had been across the road. The doorbell rang and Molly shrieked. Michael crawled across the floor till he reached the door, went into the hallway, and peered through the spyhole in the main door of the flat. He saw a man wearing black clothes, holding a big automatic rifle. He had fair hair, appeared to be in his thirties. Michael slipped on the security chain and opened the door.

"Hi, er, I'm a friend of Jenny's, she said you might need some help tonight. One of the other guys spotted somebody acting suss, so he fired a warning shot, they're going after him. Don't worry about this, it's licenced, could I come in and check there's been nothing odd inside?" the man had a distinct Scots accent.

"Oh, Jenny's 'guardian angels' eh? What's your name?" Michael asked, realising that Scarlet Ribbon had indeed meant business.

"John Tasker. I'm what they call a private military contractor, a mercenary in old money," he grinned.

"Righto, Mr Tasker, but you might want to hide that gun, we did get quite a scare just now," Michael said, taking the chain off the latch. He turned and dashed inside, "Folks, don't be alarmed, the guy behind me is one of the good ones, he's just going to check inside, that ok, Molly?"

"If you think he's ok, then let him in," she said, wiping her hands on her jeans. Laurence stood close behind her. Sherlock remained at the window, his keen eyesight tracking two more men running across the Common.

Molly saw the man in black, and guessed that the large bulge inside his jacket was a weapon of some kind. _Bet Lestrade doesn't have a gun that size_! John Tasker smiled at her, in a cavalier fashion. "Hey folks, sorry about the intrusion, just trying to keep the peace, Tasker's the name," he trilled. "Mind if I check your back rooms? Want tae make sure there's been no-one trying to break in."

"Well yes, please do," she said, waving her hand towards the kitchen. _He's cute, on an oh-my-gosh scale, wowsers!_ She followed him quickly, admiring his athletic frame and sandy hair.

"Mercenary, huh?" Sherlock said aloud.

"You've got good ears," Michael commented.

"That and I know what the basic shape of an automatic rifle looks like, probably an AK-47 or similar, Russian import, our man will have the relevant contacts. If he's with a PMC company, then they will be properly regulated," the dark-haired detective continued.

Laurence followed after Molly and John Tasker. The latter felt around all the windows, checked the electrical cords, poked and prodded walls, then turned to them and said he would just check the back of the building. Molly showed him the back door in the external corridor, and watched, fascinated as he again, felt his gloved hand around the window sills. He looked up and shouted "All clear down here, Jani, any joy over there?"

"Negative, I think they lost him," a voice called back, sounding distinctly South African.

"Ok, we'd better hang about till daylight, no sense leaving yet," Tasker advised his colleague. He turned to Molly, "We'll be here till tomorrow. I don't think this guy Brook will be back, unless he wants, a) to be arrested, or b) to be shot as a burglar!"

Tasker's manner was very lightsome and easy. Molly finally felt safe. "Thank you, I mean, and thanks whoever sent you, it's not often I get a personal armed guard, in fact, never!" she said.

"Nae bother. Now if ye wouldn't mind giving the lads tea when they come in, they'll take it in turns to watch from the roof, round here and out front. Most o' us are ex-squaddies, so we like our tea _strong_, aye?" Tasker explained.

"Of course! No trouble, I don't think I've ever had so much male company! My neighbours will talk!" Molly beamed, hoping they would. A bit of this kind of gossip would spice up her street-cred no end.

"I'm sure you're a respectable lady, now I'll just check with my lads out front and see what they say about Brook, be back with ye in a minute or so, ok?" Tasker said.

Molly went back into the flat. "It's fine, they all seem to know what they're doing, we've only to supply them with tea. Michael, do I take it you knew something about this?"

"Um, I might have asked for help. They are associates of a patient of mine, who also happens to be a good friend of Irene Adler, does that explain?" Michael said sheepishly.

"After today, I'd believe anything was possible. Well, we've seen the last of psychopathic twins for the evening, help me put the furniture back, and draw those curtains, it's freezing out there!"

A little while later, Michael decided he would be safe enough to go home, he said goodbye to Molly, but his offer of a lift to Laurence was refused. His colleague said he would far rather stay there, as he really would need to clean his house from top to bottom after Brook's intrusion. "That's ok, I understand entirely. You do that, don't worry about the Clinic tomorrow, I think we might as well shut up shop for a day or so. I've got some business to attend to anyway, so just let me know how you're doing tomorrow night, ok?"

"Yep, will do," Laurence assured, beginning to feel the damaged skin on his back itch like fury.

Sherlock helped Molly move the settee as the others talked at the door. They pulled the long brocaded curtains back across the window. As they reached the middle, Sherlock's hand brushed against hers. "So, Irene knows I'm still alive?" he whispered.

"Yes. I think she wanted you to help get Moran after what he did to Kate, but then, the Met got him instead. She's … something else, isn't she?" Molly wasn't sure what else to say.

Sherlock could see her jealousy sparkle in her eyes. "Let's hope Lestrade can make the charge stick. But Irene can look after herself now, as long as she stays out of my brother's way," he commented. "Do I take it I'm surplus to requirements now?" he added, sounding almost hurt.

Molly's eyes widened. Had he _heard_ any of the conversation that had passed between her and Laurence? "Oh no, I mean, is it safe for you to go out there? In fact, is it wise for you to be about at all? Especially when you're supposed to be dead!"

"I'll be fine. You had no idea I was the cabbie, did you?"

Molly shook her head. "It's like you said once, hide in plain sight, just like Jim did."

"Are you relieved he's gone?"

"Very."

"But, let me ask you again, _am I surplus to requirements_?" Sherlock's eyes were sharp and angry-looking. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Was he asking her if she still felt the same now Laurence had turned up? Lovely old Laurence, one of her closest friends back then, who actually had the same stunning ability to notice things and apply them as Sherlock, but lacked the total insensitivity and coldness of the latter!

"How can I answer that? I told you I believed in you, and I still do, but if you're asking me what I think you're asking, then _I don't know_. That's one case I doubt you'd ever solve. If Brook hadn't turned up, what were you going to do? How long were you intending on disappearing for?" she said sharply.

"For as long as it took to dismantle Moriarty's web. Getting rid of him was just a start, but now it seems it'll be even harder if Brook presumes to take his brother's place. This wasn't about anyone else but me and Moriarty, finishing it for good. It just so happened that suited Mycroft's purposes too. I shall be sticking around to make sure Brook is gone too, but if you don't want to see me again, that's fine, there's much to be done!" Sherlock retorted.

"Look, I try not to be a vengeful person, but you've hurt me so often, then you try and charm me because you know I'm the only one who would have the resources to help you, and you go as far as to kiss me to convince me you're being genuine. I find it hard to accept that _this_ leopard can change his spots so easily. That's just _it_, Sherlock, you think it is all about _you_! Laurence could teach you a few lessons in kindliness, I'm sure. Can't you see? Moriarty might have been your evil self, but Laurence is how you might have been if you weren't so bloody _self-absorbed_!"

Sherlock gaped at her outburst. He retreated and dashed past Michael and Laurence, disappearing into the night. Molly burst into tears. Michael had an inkling of the dynamics that had been going on all evening. He looked at Laurence as if to ask if he was going to do something, but Laurence stared back with a horrified expression. Michael sighed, walked back into the room, and put his arms around Molly in a comforting hug. "Put the kettle on, Laurence, that's the idea," he said softly, leading Molly to the settee. "There, there, my dear, what a horrible old world it is, eh? Well, you cry on my shoulder, I don't mind, I'm neutral."

**Chapter 12**

Molly had soon retreated into her bedroom with a cup of tea, only telling Michael that it 'wasn't fair, why have I got to choose?' Michael turned to Laurence. "I think it's best if we _both_ clear out of here. Tasker's on guard, she'll be quite safe. Come back to mine, then you can go back to yours in the morning."

Laurence agreed. They left the flat, finding Tasker standing outside the street door. He waved them goodbye, as they headed for the Morris. "Am I in the doghouse with Molly?" Laurence asked as they headed out of town towards Osterley.

"Oh, I think Sherlock Holmes is in far more trouble than you. Unfortunately it sometimes happens like that, you think you like somebody, then there's a blast from the past that reminds you of what you once had. You just reminded Molly of a time she must have been far happier," Michael explained.

"Do you think she's unhappy? Oh, wait a minute, I'm the world's biggest idiot, did she not tell me herself that he'd practically begged her to help him, and was all lovey-dovey? Argh! So she's fancied Sherlock for a while, then I come back on the scene and confuse her! Aw no, silly, stupid oaf! I really liked Molly at university, she was the only girl who liked me. Oh, I mean Elsa was part of our group, but I got a feeling she didn't like boys very much, but Molly was just _such_ a good friend. It was only the night of the Graduation Ball I got so close to asking her out, but then I didn't, I was too scared she'd say no. I'm too late, am I?" Laurence clapped his hands over his face and groaned.

"Oh nonsense, never give up! I get the sense Sherlock Holmes has so much grovelling to do to that girl, she won't have the patience to wait until he's feeling sufficiently penitent again. He's … well, insensitive. And I suspect, only, like you, because he hones in on things that concern him, obsess him, and nothing else matters. That's why you couldn't work in the NHS, because you'd never get the peace or lack of interference, right? But you've had years of people helping you, guiding you, and your own determination to cope, perhaps he has no-one. If he was my son, I'd have tried to help him see how his behaviour affects others, not that'd I've ever had any experience of fatherhood, but thinking how my Dad was to me, he was always insistent that to be a gentleman you had to act like one, all the time, whether you felt like it or not, because it would, mostly encourage others to be the same back. I know your folks have been gone a long time, but didn't you tell me that they both always encouraged you? I'm getting slushy in my old age, but I think I feel quite sorry for that boy Holmes. But he'll have to see it for himself, just as you've done. Leave Molly to her own devices for a bit, she'll come back to you if she's interested in more than friendship, make sense?" Michael explained.

"Yeah."

Back in Osterley, Laurence was happy to flop straight down on the spare bed, which Michael had covered with fresh sheets and pillowcases after Irene's stay. Michael left him to it, double-checked his door was locked, and went up to his own bed. _What a day, don't think I want a repeat of that_! He though, as he threw his clothes lazily on the floor and picked up his earlier discarded pyjamas.

Lestrade did a double-take as he saw the dark-haired woman coming towards him across the office. "Gee, I thought you were Molly for a moment there!"

"It's Irene. You didn't recognise me without my finery?" she said quietly. Irene was wearing her long hair loose and had washed out the black dye a little. She had no makeup, and was wearing her tracksuit with a large black ski jacket over it.

"Oh. Look, come with me, we need to speak about Kate again," Lestrade said, waving his hand in the direction of an interview room. He called Western to follow them.

They sat down at a wooden table and Western put two audio tapes into the recorder which was on the table by the wall. "Don't switch it on yet, Constable," Lestrade began. Western pressed the pause button and handed his superior a buff folder. Lestrade took a black and white photograph out of it and passed it to Irene. "Is this Moran?"

Irene stared at it, recognising the features of Moriarty's French associate. "Yes, that's the man I met, Sebastian Moran."

"We've got him in custody. He is claiming his name is Miller and that he's a hospital cleaner at St. Bart's. We've taken his prints, and though Forensics reckon he wore plastic gloves most of the time, there was a palm print on the window sill of Kate's room. It was a match, and hopefully they'll be able to finish comparing the DNA within the next hour. If that's a match too, we've got him, whoever he claims to be. Are you ok with this?" Lestrade explained.

Irene nodded, "Ok, would you agree to starting a formal interview now?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, of course, I want Kate's killer dealt with."

Rafe Charteris was sitting in the passenger seat of his cousin's Jaguar on Hatherley Street outside Vincent Square Mansions where Nancy Donafiro presently resided. In Rafe's hand was a packet of pills labelled Prazosin. He had already taken one in the morning first thing. "Ok, Michael said if I take a double-dose now it should give me the relevant side-effects. I'll play the martyr to Nancy and see what happens," he said, as he pressed two of the pills out of the blister packet into his palm.

"As _soon_ as you feel ill make her call me! You know I normally don't let my emotions get the better of me, but I want you to come out of this alive!"

"I _will_. Michael and Scarlet are in the private ambulance up near the junction of Vane Street and Vincent Square. You call them when it happens, I'm going to try and get outside to make it easier for them to get here. I trust them, especially Dr Morton, you've seen for yourself he is straight, and he has enough problems of his own without generating more. Right, tally-ho!" Rafe said, tipping the two pills into his mouth and drinking from a bottle of water which had been standing on the lip of the dashboard.

Michael rested his chin on his arms across the steering wheel of the black private ambulance, a converted Mercedes van with smoked glass windows on all sides apart from the windscreen. He was wearing his hospital scrubs. Scarlet was wearing her new camel coat as before. She had braided her hair and tied it in a bun at the back of her neck, this time a smart cream polo neck pullover was hiding her scars.

"You're very quiet," she observed.

"Can't stop thinking about last night. It's not every day you open the door to an armed mercenary soldier! I really am wondering where this is going to end. I didn't say anything before, but I have an appointment with a specialist at the Royal London at the end of the month, been a bit worried about …well, plumbing. If I've _not_ got cancer after all this stress, it will be a miracle, _and_ it will make me think twice about spending my whole life working in future!" he muttered, not taking his eyes off the external scene.

"I did notice. I saw the appointment card in the car glove box that day you pulled your mad stunt at my house. My brother lives for the Army, I worry that one day he'll either be unlucky with a terrorist's bullet, or just drop down dead from overdosing on adrenaline. Now can you see why I like having enough money not to worry? Anyway, now the police are on full alert for Richard Moriarty, I think we're getting to the end of this. I promised you, we solve Rafe's problem and I will disappear. You will find a legitimate investment proposal making its way to your Business Manager, and that will be that," Scarlet assured him, her tone still sharp.

"No more favours?"

"No. None. Just fix my scar and I will be _gone_ from your life."

_Maybe I'm not sure I want you to be gone_, he thought. He saw the mess Molly was in over her conflicting affections and was horrified that he too was now experiencing feelings not known since university, in fact, probably even since high school.

"I was pretty impressed though. These friends of yours, they're hardly the type you'd take to Claridge's," Michael suddenly changed the subject.

"Well, when I say 'friend', I mean business associate in this case. Irene and her great aunt are two of my few close friends. Rafe is another. My sister and her husband too, but then they're family. Family and _business_ has always been separate in my book," she sighed.

"So what does that make me? I mean, Tasker and his men protected Molly, Laurence and the famous Sherlock Holmes too, I really don't get you half the time," Michael looked around at her.

"Oh! So that's who you meant when you said it was an old friend of Irene's! I was puzzling over that this morning. What's he like?" Scarlet asked, suddenly reanimated.

"Sort of spectral good looks, like a Percy Shelley or some other Romantic poet, and blisteringly smart. Some might say obnoxious," Michael explained.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He has no qualms about calling a spade a spade. He has cold-reading down to a fine art, even noticed that my casual jeans were hemmed in red thread, and guessed from that I was single, because a married man wouldn't have been allowed to go out with that. Doctors do cold reading all the time, but it's so we can work out the less obvious symptoms and match them to the bank of knowledge we have for various medical conditions. This Sherlock Holmes seems to have a wide and esoteric knowledge of mankind in general. Laurence couldn't cope with him. I suspect they have the same problems, only Laurence knows how to deal with his condition, Sherlock Holmes lacks any sort of decorum or sensitivity whatsoever. But I like him, he reminds me of some of the lofty consultants from my training, they believed they were gods. Sherlock looks at you like he only believes in himself. A very curious character indeed," Michael told her.

"Sounds fascinating, a bit like James Moriarty was reputed to be, one stop short of Barking!" Scarlet smirked.

Just then, Michael's work mobile rang, "This is it, it's Charles-Henry's number!" He answered it, "Hello, Dr Morton speaking, yes, hello, Mr Ravenhurst… your cousin's collapsed on the steps at Vincent Square Mansions? Right, we'll be there immediately."

Michael started the van and floored the accelerator. The streets running alongside Vincent Square playing fields had all been cleared of snow, so it was easy to race down to the corner of the mansions, where they could see Charles-Henry leaning over Rafe, and a distraught Nancy standing in the road, looking around her. She spotted the black vehicle heading down the street at speed and waved to them. Michael managed to draw the van up just by a parked car, although he realised there was little room to manoeuvre. He got out, instructing Scarlet to wait for his signal. She looked at Nancy and realised the Italian woman wore an identical coat to her own. Nancy even had her hair braided up in the same fashion. _Copycat. She really is mutton dressed as lamb chops!_ Scarlet thought cruelly.

"Oh, Dottore! Oh it was my fault again! My beloved Rafe, we argued on the stair, all the time he's complaining of not breathing, and I was not listening! Oh help him, please, I'm sorry! I thought he was shamming!" Nancy bleated.

"Stress will make his condition worse, Mrs Charteris, I did warn you. But it may just be a reaction to the blood pressure medication, poor breathing is a known side-effect," Michael stated in a calm, professional manner. He crouched down beside Rafe, who was half-supported by Charles-Henry, "What's worst?"

"Breathing, it's very shallow, and I feel dizzy," Rafe replied quietly. "Hope this is just the pills, Doc, it's pretty horrible," he added.

Michael took the stethoscope from around his neck and poked it through Rafe's shirt, listening to the rapid heart-beat. The lungs sounded clear, but Michael suspected the blood pressure had lowered too much so there was less movement of it around the body which was affecting the other major functions. "Right, we need to get you in the ambulance, get you some pure oxygen and wait for the effects of the pills to subside. They will, might take an hour or so till they work through your bloodstream," he explained.

"Mamma Mia, will he be alright?" Nancy gasped, her English not sufficient to follow their rapid conversation.

"I think so, I'm going to give him oxygen, help his breathing. We'll whisk him off to the clinic, do another ECG, and revise his medication. He should be fine by the afternoon, not to worry," Michael replied, smiling reassuringly at her.

Scarlet meanwhile saw a rapidly approaching vehicle out of the rearview mirror; a large silver Range Rover, with chrome grille was speeding down Vincent Square towards them. _Wait a minute_…Before she was able to give any sort of warning, she saw Nancy take a few steps backwards into the road, as Michael and Charles-Henry helped Rafe to his feet. Nancy was in clear view of any traffic coming from either side. Scarlet felt a juddering impact as the Range Rover scraped alongside the black ambulance and thundered into the unsuspecting Nancy. She disappeared from view. Scarlet leapt out of the passenger seat. "Moriarty!" she yelled, seeing the driver reverse furiously, which tore off the side mirrors of both the Range Rover and the ambulance. "He's going to drive over her, for any sake, pull her out of the way!"

Scarlet caught Richard Moriarty's gaze. He realised his mistake. Two women, similar height, identical coat and hair style, the achingly bright winter sun had made Nancy's dark hair shine a chestnut brown. Scarlet guessed too. Time seemed to freeze. Michael and Charles-Henry grabbed at Nancy's legs and ankles, while Rafe clung on to the bonnet of a nearby car. Scarlet dashed forward between the ambulance's bonnet and Nancy's prone form. She made a grab for the driver's door, hauling it open, before Richard tried to pull it back.

"It's you! I know it's you! That was your last mistake, Mr Moriarty!" she yelled through the door.

"Scarlet Ribbon, since when did an international jewel thief get involved with Sherlock Holmes and his entourage?" Richard retorted.

"Since you started targeting Michael Morton, and your psycho friend Moran killed my best friend's partner! They've got him, they've got Moran, and you know what will happen when the security services get hold of him. You're _done_!" Scarlet screamed.

Richard rammed the gearstick forward while slamming his foot hard down on the accelerator and turning the driving wheel on opposite lock. The Range Rover lurched forward then sped off, sending Scarlet sprawling back onto the bonnet of the ambulance. "Damn you, Richard Moriarty!" she yelled after him, and scrambled to her feet.

Looking down, she saw Michael and Charles-Henry gently turning Nancy's battered body onto the right side, opposite the impact. The left side of her face was a shattered mess, blood, glass, torn flesh, a black mass of tissue and bruise swelling up across her cheek and jaw. Her left arm was bent in the most grotesque manner behind her back, and the left leg exposed through her torn clothes, a huge shard of plexiglass material from the headlamp sticking out of her thigh. Scarlet immediately remembered her own accident. She had been stuck in her car, the only serious wound had been the one on her neck.

Instinctively she dived back into the ambulance and found Michael's phone. "Ambulance please, there's been a hit and run car accident on the corner of Vincent Square and Hatherley Street, right outside the Mansions, a woman's been knocked down, seriously injured. Yes, there's private doctor here, he was called to attend her husband. She was hit as she walked into the road. It was a Range Rover, new one, silver, scraped the side of the private ambulance, it's nearside mirror's broken off." She explained.

_Damn and curse that woman! They were dressed the same! And Sebastian's been arrested_! _Idiot, he didn't have a man inside St Bart's, it was him all along! That's how he knew so much about what Drs Hooper and Mellifer looked like! Damn, damn, damn!_ Richard swore to himself as he raced along Vauxhall Bridge Road towards Victoria Station. He knew there were two buildings which had underpasses heading to the station, he would ditch the car there. Under Neathouse Place, not enough space, taxis behind him, couldn't stop. Under Bridge Place, ah, no cars! Richard forced the Range Rover up onto the pavement and slammed on the brakes, causing the vehicle to bump slowly into the wall of the building and bounce back slightly. Richard took the keys and ran. He heard shouts behind him, but did not stop to look. He had to find his locker, then find a toilet in which to change, to become Brook again. He scuttled down to the right, passing Victoria Station's concourse until he reached an entrance by the shops. He immediately slowed to a halt and then walked normally across the slippery tiled surface to the luggage reclaim desk and lockers. He strolled past a British Transport Police officer, and smiled confidently at the man who nodded a 'good morning' in return. Richard walked into the luggage area and strode across to the locker section. He retrieved a sports bag from inside one, locked it, and walked back outside. He then had the agonising task of walking back past the policeman who had now been joined by two of his colleagues. Richard straightened his tie and ran his hand through his hair as he passed them. They ignored him. He reached the steps down to the male toilets and skipped down them two at a time.

Charles-Henry was trying to keep his cousin calm. Rafe was shaking in fear. "That's not what I wanted! I hated her, but not enough for her to be dead! No, no, I didn't want her dead!"

"I know, cousin, I know, but to all the world it will be exactly what it was, a terrible accident. We don't know how she is, just come and sit in the clinic's ambulance, remember you've just overdosed on blood-pressure drugs, you're not in a fit state to be thinking!" Charles-Henry assured quietly.

Michael Morton was giving the paramedics who had arrived a quick explanation of what happened and a summary of Nancy's injuries. "She's not breathing, and I couldn't get a carotid pulse," he added.

"It's ok, we'll start CPR in our ambulance," one of them replied, as they slipped a blanket around Nancy and used it to shift her on to a stretcher with collapsible legs. "What's her name?"

"Nancy, Nancy Donafiro. We didn't even hear the car till it was too late, a huge Range Rover. It's practically taken the paint off the side of my vehicle, you'll see that," Michael said gravely.

"There's no shortage of bad drivers in London, Doc, poor woman, looks like she's lost most of her face. But we'll get her to A&E at St Thomas's, all the places round here are private," the paramedic commented.

"Ok, thanks, we'll follow you later, I came to attend her husband, so I'll need to stabilise him first," Michael said.

"Yeah, and you'd better wait for the police anyway, they'll definitely want to know about the nutter who did this."

Scarlet Ribbon said nothing; she stood back looking between Rafe and Michael. She was angry now; too many people were being affected by this lunatic Richard Moriarty, and now he'd turned on her. _You've picked the wrong enemy, and you'll find out just how wrong as soon as I catch you._ She strolled around to the back of the private ambulance where Charles-Henry sat on the open tailgate, smoking a cigarette.

Michael appeared beside them. "Not looking good I'm afraid," he said.

"Rafe's very upset by it, he feels guilty," Charles-Henry commented.

Michael looked into the van then climbed in and bent over Rafe, "Hey, how are you doing?" he said.

"Been better, old boy, you still got that oxygen?" Rafe asked.

Michael organised the oxygen bottle and giving Rafe the mask, he turned on the supply slowly. "Now, just breathe slowly and deeply. Pure oxygen will give you a bit of a high, so just take it easy."

"Michael, are we really going to wait for the police?" Scarlet asked.

"We better. For one this is the second vehicle I've had damaged as a result of Brook's madness, and two, it will look more suspicious if we disappear. Anyway, _you_ were the one who saw it happen," he told her from inside.

"Might as well call Greg Lestrade now then, since Brook aka Moriarty is his case!"

Lestrade and Western had just finished with Irene's interview when a knock came to the door. "Yeah, in you come!" Lestrade called.

"Hello sir, there's a call about an accident that happened near Vincent Square Mansions, apparently your suspect Brook is the culprit, and he's still at large," it was D.S. Sally Donovan.

"Oh what? I've never come across such a prolific criminal! Ok, I think I'll just go down there. Is the caller still on the line?" Lestrade asked.

"No, she just said to tell you. Didn't give a name, but it tallies with a service centre call about five minutes ago, hit and run, paramedics already on their way," Sally replied.

"Ah, right, it's ok, I think I know who it was. Could you ask Forensics if they've anything else on Moran and the Burrell murder? If so, catch me before I leave or tell Western here," he said.

"Will do," Sally said, and left, without even recognising Irene.

Irene looked up at Greg, "He can't stop himself. I think I know what that will have been about too."

"Your friend Jenny? I wouldn't be surprised. This is just one big mess, isn't it? And Sherlock Holmes is at the root of it. None of this would be continuing if it wasn't for him, so it makes me convinced he's somewhere out there, and Brook's after him too. Aw man, if I don't sleep soon, I'll fall down!" he groaned.

Irene said nothing, feeling too exhausted and hung over herself to flirt. Western offered to give her a lift, "That's appreciated Constable, but I think I'm safer here until I know that Jenny's back home. I didn't go to Cambridge after all. I couldn't leave everything undone, you see?"

"Perfectly understandable, Miss Adler, you've had a terrible experience. Er, look, I'll take you along to the canteen for a coffee if you want? Just give you a bit of breathing space, eh?" Western offered. Irene agreed.

As they got up, she put her hand on Greg's arm, "Don't let Moran get away with it, whatever you need to make this stick, tell me, and I'll do it," she said, fixing him with her intense pale blue eyes.

Greg felt a shiver run down his spine, "We won't, really, science will bang him to rights if anything will." He leaned down closer to her, being at least eight inches taller than the petite beauty, "Irene, I _promise_ you… and I don't ever make promises I can't keep, especially to the families of murder victims, but this time, I promise Moran will get what's coming to him."

Irene sighed, and squeezed his sleeve, Greg noticing tears threatening to escape from her lowered lids. She was something else, not like any woman he had ever known, but even she was vulnerable, and he wanted to help, after all, Sherlock Holmes wasn't being much help to her, nor Molly for that matter! He gave her a slight nod, to underline his promise. Irene walked away with Western. Lestrade strode into his office and grabbed his Gortex coat. He had managed to find clean trousers and thick leather boots after getting soaked the previous day. He had not been home for about 36 hours now, very soon he would have to give in and get back to bed, but not before he'd found out what else Richard Brook had been up to.

Lestrade had caught up with the information via the emergency band radio, and took a Force pool car out of the underground garage and drove onto Victoria Street. He typed the address of Vincent Square into the sat-nav display on the dashboard, but realised it was somewhere nearby, especially having heard the Range Rover had been dumped practically outside Victoria Station.

Reaching the scene he could not miss the scored marks across the flank of the private ambulance and the innards of the side mirror poking out. There was a good bit of silver paint in amongst it, so it might help forensics. He drew the police Vauxhall Vectra up into an empty space across the road, and got out. Scarlet Ribbon was first to greet him.

"Got my message then, Inspector?" she said.

"Yeah, but I don't like being treated like a lap-dog, it's bad enough Mycroft Holmes throwing his weight around and making me babysit his brother, then you turn up, and I'm not sure I trust you either!" Lestrade said, but in a tone that suggested he preferred her ordering him about to the sullen MI5 senior operative.

"Only because it concerns my friends, I wouldn't _talk_ to the police if I could help it, not after what one of your more junior police drivers did to me! Anyway, no matter, Richard Brook, or Moriarty as I think we now both agree he is, was looking to get rid of me. The woman that he hit was wearing this identical coat and had her hair up like mine. Unfortunately for Moriarty, that woman happens to be associated with another of my old friends, who is suffering from ill health already. Now he's just witnessed Moriarty run his wife down in cold blood. Rafe and Nancy are _nothing_ to do with him, but in his misguided attempt to attack me, he has simply enflamed my wrath against him. It bothers me that it is now three days since Kitty and Kate were killed, and yet you still haven't caught Moriarty! It was sheer good fortune you lot got Moran, but you've got to get into this lunatic's head, work out where he will be!" Scarlet ranted.

"Aw come on, don't tell me how to do my job!" Greg sighed. "You'll be pleased to know that I got Irene's statement and hopefully later today the next piece of forensic evidence to charge Moran with Kate's murder. Meantime, who have we got here?" he asked, strolling round the back of the ambulance to see two uniformed officers interviewing Dr Morton, and a very tall man who was sitting inside alongside a man on a stretcher.

"Dr Morton, we meet again, not good this, is it?" Greg said, shaking his head.

"Not really, no, it was so quick, there was no way any of us could have prevented it," Michael sighed.

"I understand Miss Summers believes the driver was Richard Brook," he said.

"Yes, they shouted at each other. She tried to pull the door of the Range Rover open, and I heard them, but I was too busy trying to protect Nancy, I mean, Mrs Charteris from further injury. She's been taken to St. Thomas's, by the way. I wasn't very hopeful seeing the state of her," Michael explained.

Greg bit his lip, _this was out of hand! This was worse than Jim Moriarty! _He turned back to Scarlet. "So, where did he go after you challenged him?"

"Down the road there, in the direction of the station I would bet," she replied.

"Yep, the Range Rover was dumped in the underpass of Bridge House. The BTP have been alerted, so if he's in the station, he's not going far," Greg explained hopefully.

Scarlet scowled. "If I see him before you do, Lestrade, I'm warning you, there might not be much of him left. You better pray your officers find him first, or what he did to Kitty Riley will be nothing to what I'll do to him!"

"I don't think that's wise, Miss Summers, we have information that he is likely to have serious psychiatric problems, so I would ask you to _stay away_ and let the police do their job," Lestrade warned her.

Scarlet folded her arms in annoyance. She knew to say more would be risking her own secrets. Lestrade was already suspicious of her from her friendship with Irene. No, she would have to sit on the sidelines this time and wait, ensuring that John Tasker and his team were never very far from them all.

**Chapter 13**

"Oh wow, will you look at him? Tasty or what? He reminds me of an airline pilot!" Hayley Jennings cooed. She and her colleague, Alison Tate were admiring the new visitor who had just come to the nursing home's reception desk. He was tall, dressed in a black suit, had slicked back hair and the most stunning prominent cheekbones.

"My granny would be saying he was like Valentino! Fwoar! Makes a change from dirty old men!" Alison smirked as the two of them stood further down the corridor, a trolley of drugs between them. "Wonder who he's come to see? I don't know of any of the clients who have a dishy grandson or great-grandson like that!"

The object of their affections turned and walked towards them, "Excuse me, ladies, I'm looking for a distant relative of mine, your colleague at the desk said you'd direct me, a Mr Rory Moriarty?"

Hayley rolled her eyes in delight at Alison hearing his deep, plummy tones, "Of course, sir, he's in the back lounge, poor chap keeps saying his son's died, you don't know anything about that?"

"Er no, I've not been in touch with the family for a very long time, I'm just over in the UK for a short-term contract and I realised I could come and see Rory. He has twin sons as far as I know, Richard and James. Have they never been to visit?" the stranger asked.

"Twins? Oh no, first I've heard, definitely a James, or Jim as he said he liked to be called, Irishman, came and made sure his father was being taken care of properly, very officious! But I'm sure Rory'll be delighted to have company, he's been so upset lately, he needs someone to cheer him up," Alison said, "Come this way, I'll take you to him."

Hayley and Alison exchanged winks as the latter directed the tall stranger through the front lounge, a bright, airy space where a number of old folk were sitting either singly in chairs, or around the table where a game of dominoes was in progress. The Bramble Hills Nursing Home seemed to be one of the better ones; despite being in a rambling old Victorian manor on the outskirts of Godalming in Surrey, it had clearly been adapted to suit its current purpose.

The rear lounge looked out onto the extensive lawn which was fringed by high beech and birch trees. Over beside the French doors, an elderly man, dressed in a bright green cardigan, cream polo shirt and grey slacks, sat back in a stiff armchair. He was balding, but there were strands of hair pulled across his freckled scalp, flecks of deep auburn still visible amongst the white. His wide brown eyes were entranced by the chaffinch currently gobbling nuts from the feeder on the small bush by the door.

"Rory, hello dear, I've got a visitor for you!" Alison trilled as if talking to a child.

The man, startled, jerked to attention and looked at her. The eyes were sunken into his face, skin sagging into his sallow cheeks, but there was a vague shadow of the younger person that had once been, a smirk that came to his lips as Alison said his name, fulsome lips that had once spoken powerfully, and sharp eyebrows streaked in auburn.

"A visitor? B'jasus, that'll be a miracle," Rory spoke, betraying his strong southern Irish drawl.

"A distant relative! You're lucky, see? Now, no more gloomy talk about death, I'll be back later with some tea, ok?" Alison smiled, patting Rory's arm.

"Ah, you're a good girl, the Virgin bless ye," he replied.

"Now, er, Mr,… you didn't tell me your name?" Alison looked up at the stranger.

"Altamont, Charles Altamont," he said.

"Yes, Mr Altamont, I'll be doing the folks' teas about 11am, so I'll come back then, I'll leave you two to get reacquainted," with that Alison strode away.

Sherlock Holmes took a chair and sat before Rory Moriarty. "I'm afraid I told a little white lie there, I'm not related to you, but I do know your sons… both of them."

Rory frowned, "Well, at last, tell me the truth, laddie, is Jim dead? I read the papers, I'm no' entirely ready to fall off my perch yet, got most o' my marbles left, did he take his own life?"

"Yes."

"How did you know him?"

"First, Mr Moriarty, let me ask, when did you last see Jim?" Sherlock began softly.

"At least three months ago. He used to come every coupla weeks before, then I started seeing all this rubbish in the papers by this Riley woman, and a lad calling himself Richard Brook, who … well, he could almost have been Jim, only he _wasn't_, I know my own boy! The things they were saying, it was like they thought Jim wasn't real! _And_ the Jim Moriarty they were talking about wasn't my son, he's a successful businessman in the city, works for a merchant bank, done very well for himself!" Rory explained forcefully.

Sherlock took a deep breath, "And your _other_ son, Richard, when did you last see him?"

"Ah, now you're on dangerous ground, I've not seen that creature since his mother's funeral. My ex-wife, Bridget, died when the boys were ten. She already left me when they were two, took Richard with her, and I wasn't sorry. I don't know if you're from the police, social work or what, Mr Altamont, but do you know why we split up?" Rory continued.

"I am aware that in 1979, there were some serious allegations you made which were presented to the divorce court via your social worker at the time," Sherlock said, swallowing hard his own emotions as he began to get to the heart of his enemies.

"They were no allegations, they were _true_, may the Virgin strike me if I lie, I saw Richard stab his own brother with a scissors, and Jim fought back. I saw such venom in that boy's eyes, it was like the very devil had control of him! He was trying to _kill_ his brother! Now, I know my ex-wife had problems, she'd been in an asylum when she was a teenager, but I thought she was better, cured even, only here it was, she'd passed on the seed of her madness to the younger boy! Well, as far as I was concerned from that moment, Jim was my only son, I wanted nothing to do with a child so sick in the head, he would destroy his own flesh and blood. Yet he cried and wept when his mother took him away. At Bridget's funeral, he made a scene, he begged me to take him home, said his mother had told lies about him, said he didn't want to go back to the hospital, and then he tried again to attack Jim, at the very wake! So you can imagine, I am devastated to know that the son I loved, the one who was so faithful to me, always ensured I had everything I needed of this life's material wants, visited me when he could, even when he was away for months on business, he would call, but the last three months, he had not been in touch. The last I heard was a phone call in about early November, and that gave me cause for concern, cos he said 'Now Da, I'm going to be working on the job of my life for the next wee while, so if you don't hear from me, don't worry.' Do you know anything about that, Mr Altamont?" Rory reached out his hand and seized Sherlock's wrist.

"I don't want to disappoint you, Mr Moriarty, but I'm afraid Jim was in a lot of trouble. You might say he'd gone astray. He seemed to believe he was invincible, but the things he was doing were all pointing to his eventual destruction," Sherlock said carefully, shivering at the strength of the old man's grip.

Rory stared at him, "No, oh no, don't say it, don't say she did it to him too? Oh no, that damned woman, she reached from beyond the grave and cursed my boy, because I rejected them! She said it, you know, she said she'd curse me, said there would be a reckoning!"

"Sadly… he did appear to be suffering some terrible delusions, he thought he was a master criminal, and that he would bring down the man trying to stop him. I was there, but he was convinced that if he died, his nemesis would die too. If there was a history of mental illness in your wife's family, then I think both your sons were affected, but I'm a lawyer, not a doctor," Sherlock told him, slowly, struggling to continue the lie of his alter ego.

Rory gulped back a sob, "Oh no, not my Jim," he exclaimed.

"When we discovered you were still in London, I felt I had to come and talk to you, especially as it would appear that Richard fuelled Jim's delusions. He is currently wanted by the police for murder. Now, I work for the government, but at the moment, nobody knows where to find him, might he have had access to Jim's place of residence? I understand too that Jim was not aware Richard was his long lost twin," Sherlock said.

Rory's eyes widened further, "I don't know, but I can easily give you Jim's address, it's near Loseley Park, just down from Guildford, a beautiful old house near the manor. I've been there a few times, but these days, my legs are done, I haven't been for a few years. He was a success, he was always so cheerful and ambitious, I don't like to think Richard had been after him for revenge all this time!"

"We just can't tell, Mr Moriarty, but it is important we catch him. I believe he is very dangerous, and from what you say, the police will have to take great care how they approach this. Perhaps, oh but I couldn't ask you…" Sherlock looked up quizzically at Rory, who had let go his wrist and was now wringing his own hands.

"What? If you need my help, I know it won't bring back my Jim, but to deal with that demon incarnate once and for all, I'd do whatever I can, though it's not much these days," Rory said.

"It was just an idea that Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Met had, he did ask me to put it to you, but I suggested it may be too much for you to cope with, but again, if, and I say _if_ because we don't know how we will achieve it, but if we could induce him to come here to you, perhaps you could act as if he is Jim, which would allow the police to find him and arrest him safely. If Richard really wanted to be the sole son and heir, he would neither cause you any harm, nor the other residents here. If you give your permission, we will let the home know, and prepare for the trap," Sherlock said, trying to sound as tentative as possible.

"Well, if you can get him here, I'll play the part. If these hands were stronger, believe me, you might be arresting _me_ for murder too. But, please, tell me, Mr Altamont, Richard didn't have anything to do with Jim's death did he?" Rory pleaded.

"Not directly, but he would certainly have known it was the likely outcome of Jim's meeting with the man he believed was his enemy, and he did nothing to prevent his brother taking his own life," Sherlock said coolly.

Rory wrung his hands again, "Mr Altamont, I'm a Roman Catholic, and my church views suicide very dimly, it's a mortal sin. I would like to know where Jim is buried, not that I can go there, but I can at least arrange for my priest to go there and say mass for him, would you manage to arrange that for me? Do that, and I'll deal with Richard Burke for you."

Sherlock sighed, _Mycroft is not going to be pleased about that one_, "I will try my utmost, Mr Moriarty… I take it you call Richard by your wife's maiden name? It was the name he has been using along with the name _Brook_."

"Brook? The same as the lad in the papers? So, he's… och, it's too horrible to contemplate, aye, he will never be my son, he is _not_ a Moriarty! Anything I have left now would go to my niece, their cousin in New Zealand. I'm sorry, Mr Altamont, this is a helluva lot to take in, but I'll help you, if you help me to have mass said for my boy," Rory concluded.

"Very well, I'm sorry to have been the bringer of such bad news. We can only pray it will be over soon," Sherlock said, this time, meaning every word. He looked once more into the face of the man who had given the twins life, how could such a decent man cope with having spawned two evil offspring? And yet, Bridget Burke had paid for her part in the matter already, at Richard's hand.

Rory waved his hand dismissively, "I pray that most sincerely, but I must ask you to go, you understand?"

"Of course. Good day, Mr Moriarty."

Guildford's main library was situated on the town's North Street. Built in the late 60s, its brown harling and white pillars holding up the canopy of the entrance did little to recommend it. Across the road were fast-food outlets, estate agents, and on the corner, a Quaker Meeting House. Sherlock read it as a symptom of so-called post-war innovative developers seized by Harold Macmillan's now infamous statement 'You've never had it so good.' Inside, the library itself had embraced the twenty-first century with a bank of computers where lots of youngsters were gawping at social networking sites and a few apparent job seekers were looking up vacancies. Still in his guise as Charles Altamont, Sherlock approached the enquiry desk which was situated in the centre of floor.

"Excuse me, can I still consult the electoral roll here? I'm interested in the streets around Loseley Park," he said, affecting the deeper, cultured tone of Altamont the lawyer.

"Oh yeah, it's all digitised now though. You a member here?" the young man at the desk, probably a student working part-time, asked.

"No, I'm not. I'm a legal adviser and my client lives locally."

"That's ok, I'll just get you a temporary log-in and show you the database," the youngster said. Very quickly he had typed the basic data for Altamont into his desk PC and then, holding a print out of the temporary username and password, came from behind the desk island and led Sherlock to another set of computers further inside. "These PCs are locked so we don't get the kids wasting time on Facebook, they've only got access to databases like post codes, phone directories, registrars, etc., you'll get more peace to search here," the library assistant continued as he directed Sherlock to sit at an unattended machine.

"Right, if you just press the control, alt and delete keys at once and then type this in, I'll show you the Electoral Register database."

Sherlock did so, his fingers flying across the keys with the ease of a touch typist.

"Ok, don't think you'll need much more help, your typing fingers are as fast as some of the kids' thumbs on a Playstation!" the assistant grinned. "Right, you've got the desktop here," he continued, pointing to the icons on the green background which displayed the Surrey Council logo in the centre, "This icon is the Electoral Register, once the database opens you can search by householder name, street address and electoral ward. For Loseley Park, I would think you need Polsted Lane, unless you're looking at the manor itself, and there's New Pond Road at the far side of the estate by Compton Copse."

"You sound well-informed," Sherlock observed.

"Ah, yeah, I've got another part-time job as a park keeper at the manor on the weekends. I'm doing my masters at uni just now, so need all the work I can get to afford my tuition fees! But I'll leave you to it, Mr Altamont," the assistant replied.

Sherlock had already checked the sat-nav in his borrowed taxi as to where Jim Moriarty's grand abode might be. There had been a large farmhouse on New Pond Road as the assistant had said, but there was another, in the field directly south of Loseley Park House. He typed in _Loseley Park Home Farm_, _Polsted Lane, Guildford_. Within a few seconds a page revealed a list of addresses for Moat Cottages and the Home Farm.

There it was! _Loseley Park Home Farm; James Rory Burke, Mr; Single Occupant._ So, he had borrowed his mother's name too. It was a surprise that Richard Moriarty had not guessed his twin might do so, but then, there was no telling what sort of mental condition underlay the wider descriptions in the social work report that he had read, the very same that D.C. Western had been able to source from Dublin earlier the previous day. Mycroft was useful for something at least. Sherlock realised the unpleasant symmetry between him and Mycroft and the brothers Moriarty, a jealous hatred, an attempt to draw the distant parent's affection, and now, madness. Sherlock was sure that whatever insanity lay in his and Mycroft's mother's family, it was only the kind that had produced great art, as he thought of their ancestor, Vernet, the eighteenth century French painter.

Mycroft had been livid to realise that Richard Brook was Jim's twin. Sherlock could hear the barely-concealed venom in his voice when they had talked on the phone that morning. _We cannot have another Moriarty, I personally give you carte blanche and access to any information source which may help you locate and deal with this threat. He cannot, I repeat, cannot reveal your identity. We have Moran, it would appear he wanted to use Richard as a means to taking over the Moriarty web, and had therefore not broadcast the fact of James' death to the rest of them, but you must deal with this, and then you must go, get out of the UK and don't come back until every strand of that web has been dismantled!_

Well, thank you, brother, again I can see you're more concerned with the villain than you are your own flesh and blood. Sherlock wondered if he would have had the nerve to do what Richard Moriarty had done to his despised mother even at the age of ten. _Yet it would have been Charles Sherrinford Holmes who lay at the bottom of the stair, not my beloved mother._ He took a deep breath and cast the dark imaginings out of his mind, he had to focus entirely on Richard Moriarty now, yet he had narrowed his options by allowing his emotions to show to Molly the night before. She would not help him now, her tall, geeky friend Laurence had long secured a place in her affections before Sherlock had ever strode into the mortuary at St. Bart's, and now he was out of the running entirely. He sighed, slipped his phone out of his pocket and sent a text message.

Scarlet Ribbon's phone rang as she, Michael Morton, Rafe Charteris and Charles-Henry Ravenhurst sat in the relatives' room at St. Thomas's hospital. Rafe was pacing the floor, having much recovered his breathlessness. "Scuse me, gentlemen," Scarlet said and dashed outside onto the hospital forecourt. "Irene, what is it?"

"I don't believe this, I really don't, but then I do too, _Sherlock Holmes_ sent me a text!" she gasped.

"Definitely alive then? So, what did he say?"

"He wants our help. Says he just spoke to Jim Moriarty's father in a nursing home in Surrey, seems to think if we somehow got Richard to go there, we can get him. I really don't know, I mean, yes Moran is under arrest, but I don't know if I could face this creature, it's too much. Scarlet, you'll have to do it, I just can't, thinking of Kate and what Moran did to her, with no cause other than to hurt me, and knowing it was my association with Sherlock Holmes that caused it to happen, I don't think I want to know him any more either," Irene sounded despondent.

"Oh sweetie, I'm so sorry, but yes, of course I'll help. I was puzzling over how we could pin down Moriarty, and if the father's still around, I can't think of a better draw, I mean, he hasn't seen him for a very long time. Didn't he blame the mother for the break up? I think we can assume he killed her for it. Right, tell this Sherlock Holmes character I want to talk to him, I'll help, but he does it my way, there are so many of us in danger now, and I would be happier if I was in charge of the show," Scarlet told her.

"I'll get him to call you. Where are you just now?" Irene asked.

"St. Thomas's. Fraid it's been a morning of insanity here also, and guess who caused it? Our little friend Richard Moriarty. I've actually seen him now, and I did not like what I saw. Few if any people frighten me, but that man certainly gave me a shudder. You tell Sherlock Holmes we will meet somewhere neutral and public, near the Thames, County Hall?" Scarlet suggested.

"Very well, I'll tell him," Irene replied.

Scarlet chewed her lip; so, _finally I get to meet the great Sherlock Holmes, wonder what he'll think of me_? She went back into the hospital to find a doctor talking to Rafe who was now sitting down.

"I'm afraid your wife didn't make it. Her injuries were very severe, the impact had actually broken ribs and punctured her lungs and heart. We tried our best to repair the wounds, but we simply could not staunch the blood flow, all I can do is offer my sincere condolences," the casualty doctor said, crouching by the coffee table in the middle of the floor.

Rafe stared at him and took a deep breath, "Thank you, Doctor, I'm sure you did your best. Thing is, old chap, my wife and I were in the midst of separation, so it's all rather bittersweet, don't mind me if I don't act the distraught husband."

"Ah, I'm sorry Mr Charteris. Look, my colleagues are just cleaning her up, you can see her in a few minutes if you wish," he said.

"Mm, yes, I owe her goodbye at least," Rafe replied, feeling a strange mixture of relief, guilt and sorrow.

Charles-Henry patted his cousin's shoulder, "Just take one thing at a time, Rafe, it's all over, you can start again now," he whispered.

Michael stood by the door with Scarlet. "It's weird," she began, "I said to Rafe a few days ago that it would be pleasant symmetry if Brook ended up dealing with Nancy without our doing anything. I didn't realise I was making a prediction. I don't know what to think, other than he meant to target you. Nancy was unlucky that she had that coat. This really has to end, I'm sickened to the core of this Richard Moriarty, seriously, Scarlet, I want to do the man harm. I've never felt such an all-consuming rage, it's eating me up, I keep imagining the scalpel is in my hand and that I'm going to cut him up, destroy him, _dissect_ him. Am I crazy?" he whispered, agitated.

"No, just angry. Look, your debt with me is settled, you don't have to stay," Scarlet replied.

"Let's leave them a minute," Michael said, taking her arm. Outside, they walked to the far end of the pavement from the door of the hospital. "I've never felt so disturbed, I see now that I couldn't have prevented any of this, it was already in motion before I came to your place. I cannot just walk away and leave, apart from the fact as a doctor I need to make sure Rafe's ok, and because of _you_. I could not seriously just cut off from you now, you're in here!" he exclaimed, pointing his finger against his head. "I'm addicted."

Scarlet stood looking at the tall, handsome doctor; "Michael, I am not capable of playing the perfect girlfriend, and I don't think you could cope with a fling."

Michael clenched his fists, "Aw come on, I can't untangle myself now, you're just too much. I'll do anything to help you get Richard Moriarty, whatever it takes, but please, don't just walk away from me," he pleaded.

Scarlet sighed, "You don't know what you're asking, Dr Morton, I'll break your heart if you get involved with me romantically."

"I'll take that risk, if only as far as to see this thing through to its conclusion. What did Irene have to say, I noticed it was her number on your phone?" Michael observed.

"Sherlock Holmes requests help to catch our little villain, Irene says she can't cope with it, so I promised her I will deal with it. You've met him, so, why don't you come with me for our little rendezvous? I am awaiting a call from the legendary detective," Scarlet told him. "Remember, I am your dark angel, loyalty isn't my strong point, but maybe, maybe I could make an exception in your case, but not long-term, I don't make any promises." She took her phone back out of her pocket. "Watch this," Scarlet said. She found the compromising photos in the phone's gallery and deleted them. "I will ask Irene to delete the one I sent her. That is a show of good faith on my part, especially because you still have to repair my scars when all of this is done."

Michael bent close and kissed her cheek, "You said sin should be tempered with the occasional saintly deed, perhaps this is your opportunity."

Scarlet felt her skin prickle with sensuous pleasure. After all, he was very, very nice. Could she let go enough to be with him? She wasn't sure.

"Well, you couldn't get a more private space than the London Eye, Mr Holmes, aren't you clever?" Scarlet Ribbon said with a hint of sarcasm, as she, Sherlock Holmes, Michael Morton and Greg Lestrade stood inside one of the large pods on the giant wheel by Jubilee Gardens next to London's County Hall on the south bank of the Thames.

"The one place Richard Moriarty can't listen in or subvert our activities," Sherlock replied. "Now we are all finally aware of the fact that James and Richard Moriarty were twins, but had been separated since the age of two, only briefly meeting again at the funeral of their mother, whom we believe was pushed down a set of stairs by Richard at the age of ten, in the same year James was likely responsible for the death of the school pupil, Carl Powers. They are two halves of the same coin, both very sick-minded individuals. Jim Moriarty is dead. Richard appears to have had some sort of deal with Jim's right-hand-man, Sebastian Moran, to take over his brother's criminal empire, and fool the rest of the members of that gang into thinking the business on the roof of St Bart's was all a fake. The fact that Richard not only knows how I cheated death, but the other people involved, makes him dangerous. I now know he has already tried to attack both you, Dr Morton, and you, Miss Summers, and of course, I saw the results of his attempt at Dr Hooper's house last night. I met the father of Richard and James about two hours ago, he's a frail old man, resident in a care home in Surrey. It would appear that Jim was his favourite, and he was convinced Richard was the troublemaker. I have suggested to him in my guise as legal adviser, Charles Altamont, that both his sons were suffering from the same mental disorder as their mother. He seemed devastated, but is willing to help us trap Richard. I believe the latter is at his brother's property near Loseley Park, Guildford, so we either find a way to let him know his father is at Bramble Hills, or we go there. Lestrade, what is your opinion on each option?" Sherlock said, in a cool, professional tone. He was still wearing Altamont's suit, but his familiar ruffled dark hair was in evidence.

Greg sat down on one of the benches in the pod, "Care Home is a real no-no, I wouldn't want to put the other residents at risk, but then, how much do we know about Moriarty's place? Without a schematic of the house, I wouldn't like to risk it either, so that leaves us with two very difficult options. The care home is at least a controllable environment, and we can isolate the one room that the dad's in, but if _he_ escapes, then we're back to square one! Gee, for a miraculous resurrection, Sherlock, you've just landed me with a fresh set of problems!" Greg sounded exhausted.

"What would make him run? Richard has spent all this time wanting to get his father to accept him, and if Rory Moriarty is able to carry out the pretence he believes that it's one son and not the other, maybe Richard's emotional state is such he will gladly take on his brother's role, because that's what he and Moran were planning. I suspect Moran would not have lasted long once Richard had been able to persuade the rest of his brother's associates that he was really Jim Moriarty. It is a risk we have to take. I know I was accused of being heartless over Moriarty's sick bombing stunts a few months back, but I cannot afford to make any more mistakes," Sherlock said sharply, looking at them all.

"Mr Holmes, I'm hoping you haven't had time to find out about me, but I can assure you, John Tasker and his team would not allow Richard to escape, he would be dead before he left the building. This is the question you have to ask, do you want him dead, or arrested? Trap the spider or squash it once and for all? I'm pretty perceptive, I reckon this has been a huge embarrassment to _your_ brother, I hear he's something seriously senior in the government. He wanted Jim Moriarty dead, and now, lo and behold, his twin pops up, even more insane than the first, did he tell you to go the whole hog?" Scarlet asked in her charming, seductive tone that Michael remembered so well from that first day.

Sherlock regarded her closely, just like Irene, she was an enigma. There were too many conflicting signals, a confident businesswoman, a master jewel thief by reputation, a woman with a cold, vicious streak who would have no qualms about inflicting the most grotesque torture on her enemies simply because she enjoyed it. Revenge, it was all about revenge, dolling out the punishment to wrong-doers that had never been given to the men who killed her own father, a soldier doing his job. She didn't feel sorry for herself, she was a self-appointed avenging angel and did what suited her. "Mycroft told me I had _carte blanche_. That answer your question? Your motives puzzle me, it isn't just because Irene Adler is your life-long friend, or that you just don't want competition, but then, right now I don't care about that, I want Richard as much as you all do. I made myself a fool in front of James Moriarty, induced him into believing that I was not the man I know myself to be. But I also deceived the one person who has been my stalwart friend, John Watson. For his sake alone, this must end now!" Sherlock growled, punching his fist into the aluminium framework of the pod. "Richard does not know me."

"If I could make a comment," Michael began.

"By all means, Dr Morton," Sherlock said.

"Whatever mental illness Richard is suffering from will make him unpredictable. We cannot assume we're going to corner him successfully, but I do think you're right, his father is the key to this. I think that the safest place to deal with him is my clinic. Richard knows that we do plastic surgery, so we feed a story to the care home that Rory has been brought there to remove a suspected tumour or something, and induce him to come. He will, because it's his father, but he'll be on alert. The only people he will see are his father, me and Scarlet. Inspector Lestrade here knows about our deep level shelter below the clinic, so you can hide down there. I would be surprised if Richard could resist the temptation to come if he thought he would have a show-down with his brother's nemesis. Are you willing to risk it?" Michael explained.

Sherlock bit his lip and thought for a moment. "We need another player, someone who can trick Richard into believing that it is in his interests to see his father. I'm not taking the risk to flush him out, but another lawyer, who might be Altamont's colleague, Lestrade?"

"That Charles Ravenhurst, he'd scare the pants off the lowliest reprobate! I know I wouldn't want to meet him in court," Lestrade exclaimed.

"Yes, of course, he's Rafe's cousin, he will do it," Scarlet added.

"Dr Morton, are you ready to go ahead today?" Sherlock asked. Michael nodded. "Everything will have to appear _perfectly normal_, so, I'm afraid the rest of your staff will have to be there, an even bigger draw for Richard. Miss Summers, your mercenary friends will be required. Inspector, I'm not about to tell Mycroft what I'm doing, and I don't think we should have any other police personnel in attendance but you, especially if anything is about to go wrong, Heaven forbid," Sherlock sighed. He looked paler than ever, the events of the last week were taking their toll.

Scarlet saw a highly intelligent but deeply flawed young man, wrestling with inner demons none of them could guess at. She looked back at Michael who stood staring out at the rooftop vista. She wasn't sure if he was actually in love with her, or just still blindly infatuated, but she wanted to put an end to his worries, and perhaps push him in the direction of the pretty, bubbly blonde nurse. Greg Lestrade looked like a copper at the end of his tether; yawning from lack of sleep, burdened with two murder cases, and desperate to catch this lunatic twin.

"We do this now, I'll call Charles-Henry and get him to meet us at the clinic. Then he can go up to the care home with Michael. The rest of us wait at the clinic, Tasker's team will get themselves stationed and then we can only hope that the spider takes the bait," Scarlet informed them. "Richard Moriarty is about to finally pay the price for his madness," she concluded.

**Chapter 14**

Laurence sang loudly along to the Vaccines' track _Blow It Up_ as he danced about the living room, cleaning furiously. He was utterly unaware of the doorbell. Suddenly there was an insistent banging on the front window. He yelped in surprise and turned to see Molly waving at him. Sighing with relief, he turned down the volume on the stereo system, and came to open the front door.

"Gee what a scare! I didn't hear you!" he gasped.

"Not surprised, I could hear that music from the bottom of the path! I like that song as well though, didn't know you'd developed such good taste!" Molly teased.

"Hey, they're a good band! I saw them on Jools Holland's show on telly last year, what a blast! It's really driving stuff, and the lead singer's voice is really good. I almost wish I had the nerve to go to a gig and see them live," Laurence told her, inviting her in from the snowblown atmosphere outside.

"I _have_ seen them. I was in the audience at Jools Holland. Dr Craven's sister is an assistant producer with the BBC, she got us tickets, four of us from the pathology team. They're even better live. In fact, you've got a passing resemblance to the singer, Justin Young, same round face and blue eyes, though you're much taller than him," Molly observed. "Er, what are you doing?"

"Cleaning. I was back here at seven this morning, I've done the kitchen and the downstairs loo, done the spare bedroom upstairs and when I've finished here, I'll tackle my bedroom," he explained.

"Aw, you poor thing, really got to you, him being in here, didn't it?" she said sympathetically.

"Yup."

"I'll help, I've even brought a pair of surgical gloves," Molly showed him the gloves from the pocket of her long quilted coat. She smiled at her old friend, admiring how his brown tousled fringe fell in front of his eyes, a washed out pale blue, and how when he smiled back little dimples appeared in his cheeks. It was a kindly face, altogether different from Sherlock Holmes.

"Geeks gotta stick together," Laurence said.

With more music on the stereo, they got to work again. Upstairs Molly wielded the hoover around the carpet as Laurence sprayed and cleaned the bedframe and turned the mattress. They sang loudly in unison to the rest of the selection from the living room, jumping about with the abandon only old pals can.

"Phew! That's hoovered, bed ready now?" Molly called, switching off the vacuum cleaner.

"Just about, I mean, my logic tells me he was never up here, but you just never can tell," Laurence replied, as he was stretched out across the mattress, wiping the wooden legs of the bed.

"Well, _I_ think it's fine!" Molly laughed, leapt onto the bed, and began to tickle Laurence's side.

"Argh! Mercy, mercy! You know I'm ticklish there!" he shrieked, trying to push her hands away.

"Yep, I remember! I wrestled my exam results off you once in the middle of St George's quad. Daz filmed the whole thing on his DV camera. Good job there was no Facebook in those days!" she laughed.

"Oh stop, please Molly, you'll kill me!" he protested, gasping between howls of laughter.

"No, not till you throw that cloth away, the place is _spotless_!" Molly hissed playfully directly into his ear.

Laurence finally managed to grab both her wrists and pull her onto her back. He rolled forward and trapped her. "Now, enough! That was awful, you naughty girl!" he said, gasping for breath.

Molly was giggling, "Oh you should see your face, it's bright red! Ha ha ha, I've never seen you look so unhealthy!"

"Me? Huh, I cycle to work every day! There's nobody fitter in that clinic!" he protested.

Molly extricated one of her arms and clamped it over his lips, "Shush, I'm teasing you! Laurence, I've made up my mind about what you asked me yesterday, and the answer is not very long at all, in fact, I know now, definitely," she said, her eyes suddenly full of intense emotion.

"Mm?" he mumbled.

"I would rather be more than friends… Geeks can be in love too," she whispered.

Laurence's eyes widened, but he understood. He pulled her hand away from his mouth and drew her closer. "Really? You think I'm better than Sherlock Holmes, the great detective?"

"A million light years better, Laurie, he can't hold a candle to you," Molly sighed.

"I haven't been called Laurie since I was a baby, it's what my mum used to call me," Laurence said, tears springing to his eyes.

"I know, I know she did, she told me. When we spoke at graduation, I did tell her that we were good friends, but that I didn't think you'd worked out yet that I'd be happy if it was more. She was so nice, she said she'd keep my secret. Oh Laurie, I'm so sorry they're gone, I wish I'd known. Look, let's start again, right here. You've done so brilliantly, I'm so glad for you, but I suppose I didn't know that you were who I needed all along!"

"Molly, I was scared to think it, I always liked you, always admired you. Elsa was forever nagging me, said she could see it a mile off that the feeling was mutual!" Laurence replied.

Molly laughed, "Ha, I think Daz and Elsa must have both been trying to matchmake all along, _he_ was always praising you up to me! And to think I'd got so desperate I fell for Jim Moriarty's lies! Got so desperate I thought I could get through to that uber-geek, Sherlock Holmes! He was never going to get it, never! You proved it to me last night!"

"And I thought I'd screwed it up for good. Aw, Molly, we've been really thick. Em, I'm really not good at any of this, would you … kiss me?" his blue eyes widened, the pupils enlarging like a cat in headlights.

"Close your eyes, Laurie," Molly whispered. As he did so, she could hear the song on the stereo downstairs change to _Harvest Moon_ from the _Reservoir Dogs_ soundtrack, a lovely melancholy track. _'Maybe change is coming soon/ With the Harvest Moon';_ Molly put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him close until her lips touched his. '_If the river rises, look to the dark horizon/ For the Harvest Moon/ Wait a minute, just a little bit longer/ It's all up to me and you'_. Laurence felt the nerve-endings on his lips spark like fireworks, sending wild waves of pleasure through his body, like he had never known.

Outside the snowflakes whirled as the wind tossed them around like feathers in its fury. Laurence and Molly didn't hear its high-pitched howl as it spun around the chimney pots, and whistled through the rafters.

Far to the west, another pair of eyes witnessed the same snowy blast whip around Loseley Park, sending more flakes blasting up the hill towards Home Farm. Richard Moriarty surveyed the long lawn down to Polsted Lane. The house itself was like a miniature version of the manor below it, a Victorian copy, by the first of the tenant farmers to be permitted to buy his land from the estate. He had been an Anglo-Irish landowner himself, well-able to afford the fee Lord More-Molyneux asked. That was 1850, and he was a Burke, one of Bridget's ancestors, maybe where the madness had started, as Thomas Burke, baronet, had jumped off the roof in 1869, leaving his wife and four children to cope with death duties, scandalised neighbours and a pile of debt Thomas had accrued through risky investments which had crumbled. Yet the farm continued in the Burke name. Richard had not realised that his mother had actually transferred the deed of the farm to him when she had divorced his father. Somehow, Jim had found this out and tricked the lawyers into giving it to him. _He was so determined to keep everything from me, even what my mad mother gave me!_ Richard thought, "But now brother, I _have_ prevailed! I have what is _mine_, and you will be forgotten. When Father sees me, he will see you, but I'll be the one with everything in the end!" he said aloud, and drank down the wine glass full of red, fruity Merlot. He walked from the window back into the huge drawing room. "This is mine," he began, picking up an antique plate in the gaudy Imari pattern which had been displayed on a stand in one of the tall alcoves by the marble fireplace. It was bright and attractive, he liked it, and replaced it gently. "And _this_ is mine!" he said, picking up the Ormolu clock which sat in the centre of the mantelpiece. It was French, probably 18th century, again, bright and opulent. At least he and his brother shared a taste for conspicuous wealth and fine things. Setting the clock back down carefully, he wandered through the house, picking up antiques, fingering the frames of paintings, and stating they were _his_. "All mine, and I'll never have to share again! I'll have my father all to myself as well!"

Just then the phone rang, causing Richard to jump, he realised it was the black retro dial phone in the hallway. He picked up the receiver, "Hello, Moriarty residence?"

"Oh good day, Mr Moriarty? James Moriarty?" a female voice said.

"Mm, yes, it is he, who's calling?" Richard answered in his own voice, ditching Brook's gentle English tones.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but this is Mrs Soames, I'm the manager of Bramble Hills Nursing Home where your father is resident. It's not serious, well, I hope it isn't, but he might have to go to hospital today, and I wondered if you were free to come with him? He's a bit worried, been missing you and imagining all sorts of nonsense, you know how older folk are, but we did try to tell him you'd been away on business. Can I tell him you'll come?" the officious-sounding woman asked.

_My father is near me? Oh well, well, the perfect opportunity to begin the deception that counts most!_ "Well of course I'll come, Mrs Soames, I'm upset that you imagined I wouldn't! But er, what's wrong with him?" Richard said, exaggerating the Irish accent, having heard how his brother had spoken.

"I do apologise, Mr Moriarty, but we understand that the families of our clients do have busy lives. We found a small lump under your father's arm. We have a contract with a private London clinic, and the doctor's here with him again now, they're going to remove it and make sure it is benign. They say it isn't going to take long. Your father's legal adviser is here too, I'm not sure if you've met him before, a Mr Ravenhurst?" Mrs Soames explained.

"Mm, no, I didn't know he had a lawyer, but that's fine, I'm glad he has someone to advocate for him. I'll be there soon, just remind me, how do I get to the home?" Richard asked, scribbling down _Bramble Hills_ on the notepad which sat by the phone.

"Of course, we're just off New Way by Godalming Railway Station, down the hill from Westbrook House, it's well signposted. Take the old Portsmouth Road when you come out from New Pond Road into Godalming and follow the signs for the station, but turn off Station Road at Westbrook Road and you'll find New Way on the left," she explained.

"That's grand, Mrs Soames, I will come right away!" Richard told her, having rapidly scribbled down the names.

"Thank you, Mr Moriarty, I'll tell your father to expect you, the doctor and Mr Ravenhurst will wait for you." Mrs Soames put the receiver down. "Was that alright, Detective Inspector? I really don't like this, isn't it putting Rory in danger?"

"I don't think so, Mrs Soames, you see he _is_ Rory's son, Jim's twin, but Rory hasn't seen him for about twenty-two years. Richard Moriarty is a very dangerous individual indeed, but he loves his father, I think we have nothing to fear at this stage of the operation," Greg Lestrade said, standing behind the home's manager in her office.

"Well, _please_ be careful, Inspector, the people who live here are old and vulnerable, none more so than Rory. He cannot walk because he had Paget's Disease, it's an inflammation of the bones, which is extremely painful. The operation on his spine was successful, but it basically means they had to disconnect the nerves. That's why Rory needs an electric wheelchair. Promise me you will take care of him! I'm so sad to know that Jim's dead, he seemed so charming, what on earth possessed him to take his own life?" she sighed.

"Delusions, Mrs Soames, delusions. There was no remedy for him, he and his brother have succumbed to the same condition as their mother. But don't worry, the key to this operation is to keep it as discrete as possible. Dr Morton decided it would be wiser to send his colleague instead, so Dr Maurice Bracknell is with Rory just now, he's the clinic's anaesthetist. I'll just stay here and watch on your CCTV, but I think we're ok," Lestrade assured. "I'll just give the clinic a quick call, let them know it's all systems go," he added.

"Spider on the web, I think he'll take the bait," Lestrade said as Michael Morton answered his mobile.

"Wow, that was good work. We're ready for him. Good thing Grey Coats Hospital loaned us a new ambulance, I think Moriarty would have bolted had he seen the Merc again," Michael said.

"Yeah, it's down at the Met garage just now, Forensics are getting what they can to match the damage to the Range Rover, which is also down there. Soon as they leave here safely, I'm going to jump in a patrol car from Surrey's traffic department and get a quick ride back to London with the blues and twos going. I'll get off at Gloucester Road Tube Station and come through the shelter. Is Tasker all set?" Greg asked.

"Yes, he's on the first floor terrace of the insurance company across the road, his three colleagues are dotted about somewhere, I think the South African, Jani, is down in the shelter, so you can expect to see him there, tall, blonde, typical for his countrymen. I just can't imagine we're going to get Moriarty through the door though," Michael said.

"Charles-Henry will be most persuasive about getting him in the ambulance and leaving whatever vehicle he's got with him here. Either that, or his dad's going to really play up his aliments. Anyway, just be ready. Good job poor Moriarty Snr really does have a lump under his arm!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Yes, but it's just a cyst, there'll be a bit of goo and blood, nothing serious. That's the beauty of surgical procedure to the lay-person's eyes, it looks worse than it often is. Good luck, Inspector," Michael told him.

"And you, Dr Morton, hope this is the end."

Richard Moriarty left the Bentley outside in the car park and walked confidently into the nursing home. Although the snow lay thickly, the sky was still bright in Godalming, belying the storm just a mile away. He hadn't even bothered to take a coat, but was wearing the silvery Armani suit and white shirt with black-trimmed collar he'd found in the wardrobe. Last night had been like a game, opening drawers, cupboards, rooms, as if he was in a toyshop larger than any of his childhood fantasies.

"Mr Moriarty, hello, I'm Mrs Soames, we just talked on the phone," a short woman in a grey dress suit met him at the entrance.

"Oh yes, good morning, you must all be good-living folks in Godalming, I'm only up the road and it's snowing there!" Richard said effusively, laying on thick the Irish brogue.

"Ah, it often takes a bit of time for the weather to come down the hills there. Plenty trees to catch the snow. Anyway, come now, Dr Bracknell and Mr Ravenhurst are in the lounge with your father, they're just about ready to leave," she said, directing him across the hallway into the front lounge.

Richard's gaze fell on the old man in the electric wheelchair. His own brown eyes stared back at him. He could not help the surge of feeling inside, and dashed across to Rory, crouching before him, "Hello, Da, you gave me a fright you did!"

Rory looked at Richard, shocked at the likeness to Jim. The resemblance was uncanny, but the little scar at Jim's left eyebrow was not present, confirming this was the younger twin, not the elder who bore the marks of his brother's fury. Rory bit his lip, feeling as if he could cry. He looked up at Charles-Henry for reassurance, feeling some confidence in the towering lawyer. Charles-Henry nodded to him.

"Jim! Jim, where have you been? It's been _ages_! Och, my lad, you've been truant to yer old Da, I hope you're going to say a Rosary for that!" Rory spoke, gruffly, patting the shoulder of his younger son.

"I will, I will, I couldn't wait to see you, just so… busy. But it's nearly done now, I'll soon be able to spend loads more time with you!" Richard enthused.

"Aw, that's good news, lad, good news, now, would you do your Da a favour and come in the ambulance with me? I'm all o' a quiver about this, even though Dr Bracknell here says it's simple enough to get the plook off, it's what comes _after_ that which worries me!" Rory said, finding it surprisingly easy to fake agitation.

"Well, is that alright, Doctor? I did come in my own car," Richard looked up at Maurice, not knowing him in the least.

"Certainly, we'll be coming back here afterwards, it's a simple procedure as your father says, my colleague is about seventy percent sure it is just a benign cyst, but better safe than sorry, I'm sure you'll agree," Maurice, a Londoner, said.

"In that case, yes, of course I'll come and keep you company, Da, give us a chance to catch up," Richard laughed.

"Aye, tell me all about the contract you had, you were for being secretive about it! Don't tell me, the bank sent you to Switzerland and you didn't want to admit you'd just gone skiing!" Rory smiled.

Lestrade was relieved when he saw them go outside, and from the monitor connected to the camera on the entrance veranda, saw all of them get into the pale grey ambulance with the logo for _Grey Coats Private Hospital_ along the flank. Result! He texted Michael. _Spider approaching._

"Laurence, are you fit to come in? I really need you to be here. There's been a plan formulated to catch Richard Moriarty," Michael's voice sounded excitable over the phone.

Laurence and Molly were still lying together on the mattress, having lain and talked of old times for the last hour. "Er, do I have to? I've got a visitor… Molly's here."

"Oh. Tell her to come with you. Seriously, Laurence, it looks like we'll get him this time, there's nowhere for him to run," Michael said persuasively.

Laurence stared at Molly, she could hear the other side of the conversation. 'Do it, if it means getting that lunatic locked up, we've got to!' she whispered. "Ok, Mike, we'll get there as soon as."

Richard could hardly believe his luck; his father had accepted him as his brother, everything had worked! He carefully asked questions and worked out what stories he could invent which sounded plausible. He had not been aware of their direction in the ambulance through the smoked glass windows. He had vaguely heard of Grey Coats Hospital, it was an old private establishment predating the NHS by about a century. It wasn't until the ambulance drew up in the car park in Pennant Mews and Maurice skipped out of the driver's seat to open the sliding door of the van that Richard realised the Sun Alliance building was all too familiar. _What the hell?_

"Dr Bracknell, er, what's the name of your clinic?" he asked.

"Carisbrooke, we're here, nothing to worry about," Maurice replied.

_Trapped! I can't bail out, this is insane, how on earth would my own father have contact with this place? Of all the clinics for the home to have a contract with, this is not what I had planned!_ He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him as he followed his father's electric wheelchair across the Mews and up the concrete ramp where he'd seen Laurence Mellifer and Chantal Hart thrown by the blast of the bomb he had planted on Michael Morton's Aston Martin. Looking back, Richard could see the charred patch on the car park's surface. _No, no, this can't be possible! _

When they entered the reception, there was Agnes Woodson, she greeted Ravenhurst with a flirty, 'Hey there, Chas,' as they passed, but did not even look at Richard. "Just follow me, Rory, through this way to the treatment room," Maurice said, turning to Richard's father, who manipulated the controls of his wheelchair to move the articulated wheels down through the doorway on the right.

"Are you feeling alright, Mr Moriarty? You look rather nauseous," Charles-Henry observed.

"Er, yeah, just a bit cold, should have taken a coat," he replied, feeling his heart racing wildly.

"I'm just going to wait out here, your father will be fine, of that I have no doubts," the tall lawyer said.

"Come on, my lad, chop, chop!" Rory's voice floated back to him. Richard stepped quickly after his father and followed him and Maurice into a treatment room. To Richard's horror there sat Michael Morton, in his surgical scrubs, tight rubber gloves on his hands, and a sharp gleaming scalpel in his fingers.

"Mr Moriarty, Senior and junior," Maurice introduced.

"Good morning, it's Rory, isn't it? How are you feeling, sir?" Michael spoke pleasantly to Rory. "Now, I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of speaking to your son, James, isn't it?" He stood up, a good few inches taller than Richard.

Richard could feel cold sweat run down his spine. _He knows fine it's me, he's bloody well enjoying this!_ He shook Michael's proffered hand, and said, "Er no, we've never met before today, I'm Jim, by the way."

"Dearie me, you're the double of someone else I met recently, though he was English, didn't have a nice Republican accent like yours. You don't know a Richard Brook do you? He could be your _twin_," Michael said, a broad, playful smile on his lips.

"No, sorry, can't say I've ever heard that name," he replied, glowering back at Michael.

"Oh well, never mind, people do say everyone has a double, a _doppelganger_ the Germans call it. Now, this is a fairly simple procedure, we're just going to cut into the lump under your father's arm and drain it first, then once I've cleaned out the cyst with saline, I'll stitch it up and send the material off for analysis. I'm reasonably confident that it isn't malignant, but at Rory's age we can't afford to take any chances," Michael explained, "So, if you're squeamish, do take a seat where you can't see the, uh, action," he added, feeling his fingers tighten around the scalpel.

"Ah, well, I'm ok with that, I'll just camp over here, ok, Doc? Da, can you see me over here?" Richard asked, finding a leather stool to the right of the wheelchair.

"Aye, my lad, heh heh, I seem to remember you_ loved_ horror films when you were a teenager! Och, he was terrible, Doctor, he'd watch all the Hammer films, even though I tried to stop him. Never gave him nightmares, though, amazing!" Rory said, as Michael helped him up from the wheelchair, and onto the lowered hospital bed. "Ah, that's fine Doc, my legs do work, I just don't have any balance!" Rory said as he plonked himself down.

This particular treatment room was the largest in the building and could be divided into two smaller areas. Richard had been unaware that the partition was pulled almost all the way across. Leaning against the other side of it was Sherlock Holmes, who had been listening since the Moriartys arrived. He was impressed by the gall of his enemy in playing along. Poor Rory was playing his part well too. He slipped back out into the corridor, only to be confronted by Molly and Laurence who had just arrived. Molly gasped, but put her hands over her mouth to cover the sound. Sherlock looked at them both. He saw clearly the body language of a couple. Laurence seemed perfectly at ease with Molly in his personal space, his hand held out as if protecting her back. Molly leaned towards him and nodded down the corridor towards Laurence's office. They silently entered. Laurence pulled down the blinds.

"What's happening?" Molly asked.

"Richard Moriarty has assumed the part of his brother and is in Dr Morton's treatment room with his father, Rory Moriarty. The latter is well aware that it is not Jim; he's playing along with it. Once the procedure is done, I'm going in there to confront him. Then we'll see if he owns up," Sherlock said quietly.

"Oh that's mad! You can't put Michael at risk, and especially not Richard's father! Richard is clinically insane! Do you know if he has a gun or a knife on him? I bet you don't! See, this is why he annoys me, Laurie, he doesn't think!" she exclaimed.

"Ssh, it's ok, I can see what's happening, don't alert anyone. You didn't see John Tasker up on the balcony across the road, did you? We'll be fine," Laurence whispered.

"And as to your comment, no, he does not have a firearm, the shape would distort the lay of the jacket. His brother was never one for knives, remember, he liked to be _hands-on_, just as Richard himself is. This is a battle of wills, and I shall win. I _have _to," Sherlock sighed and looked away from her.

Laurence recognised a desperate man. "Sit down, both of you," he said. Molly sat on the sofa in the far corner. Sherlock remained on his feet. "Ok, you're exhausted, sure you can play mind games in that state?" Laurence addressed him.

"I must, you have no idea how vital this is. One of us will be leaving here dead, I can say that with total conviction," Sherlock told him, looking directly into his eyes and seeing a more relaxed, sure character than he had the day before.

Laurence reached out his hand and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, "You know, if I'd had a brother, which I didn't, I had two sisters, whom I loved dearly and they me, but if I had, I would have been pleased if it was you. I think we've been on a similar road… and I don't mean life experience, I mean the road of the mind. It takes guts to keep going. You're braver than I'd ever be, I've spent my life hiding from interaction, but you court it!"

Sherlock could hardly believe Laurence's kind words. He would never have heard such from Mycroft, but then, _his_ brother didn't have the demons. He smiled, and sniffed. He looked back at Molly, "I wasn't lying. What you saw that night was true, Molly, however stupid I've been towards you, I was _me_ that night. I'm sorry."

Molly sighed and jumped to her feet. She ran over and gave him a hug. "Sherlock, you silly, silly boy. It's ok, I forgive you. If Laurie thinks you're ok, then that's good enough for me."

Sherlock felt the tears in his eyes again. "You two are as important to me now as John is. So few people get in here," he said, putting his hand over his heart. "I thought John was my only friend, but it seems there were others, you amongst them."

"Geeks must stick together, mate, and you're one of us. Deep breath, concentrate, and go get that psycho," Laurence whispered encouragingly.

Michael had only taken ten minutes to complete the removal of the cyst. He was now using a blunt syringe full of saline to clean out the remains of the wound. Rory had spent the entire time regaling them with stories about Irish folklore. Richard wondered, regretfully if Jim had been told these as bedtime tales. He had sat watching in a state of increasing agitation, but Michael seemed content to act as if he did not know him. _Any minute, he'll ruin it all, any minute._ Richard looked at the door, and mentally counted the strides which would take him from his seat to it. He felt like an over-wound watch, the adrenaline made him feel light-headed, and a butterfly sensation in his stomach made him feel sick.

"There we are, Rory, all spick and span, I'll just stitch that up now," Michael said cheerfully.

"Ah, you did a grand job, Doctor, I didn't feel much," Rory commented.

"You wouldn't have, I gave you a Novocaine injection before we started, same stuff you get at the dentist, but not as strong a dose, perfectly painless," Michael explained.

"Ho ho, you didn't get that when I was a child! We lived in fear of the school dentist, 'Old Bucket o' Blood' we called him. There was this terrible story put round by the older pupils that he'd actually pulled so hard on a boy's tooth he'd pulled him_ inside out_ and that his skin was in a museum somewhere! Can you imagine? It's like poor old Saint Bart, did you know he was martyred by being skinned alive?" Rory exclaimed.

"I _did_ know that, Rory, there's a rather macabre statue of him at the St. Bart's hospital with most of his skeleton on display, carrying his skin like a shroud. It is one of the more gruesome martyrdom stories," Michael replied and shot a knowing glance at Richard.

Richard was watching Michael's deft fingers sew up the wound on Rory's arm, creating tiny black stitches. The bloodied rubber-clad fingers pulled the needle through and completed the closure of the wound. Picking up cotton wool and soaking it in iodine, they wiped the excess blood from Rory's skin, then placed a patch of gauze over the stitches and secured it with microporous tape. Michael then pulled the tray of equipment aside, stood up and threw his gloves into the bin. As he turned back, he slipped a clean scalpel into his hand, ensuring his body blocked the view of his arm. "Well, all finished, would you like a cup of tea now, Rory?"

"Ah, that would be nice. Milk, no sugar," Rory said, "What about you, son, you still look very peaky!"

"Um, yeah, I'll have a coffee if that's not too much trouble," Richard said.

"No problem, I'll just give the nurse a call," Michael said, picking up the phone receiver on the wall, "Chantal? Could you bring us a tea with milk and no sugar and a black coffee to treatment room one? Great, thank you."

"Very efficient place you've got here, Doctor, much better than the National Health!" Rory observed.

"Yeah, that's why I got out of state medicine, far too rushed and insensitive," Michael told him.

The door was opened and Chantal entered, she cheerily greeted Rory, and chattered to him as she did to all the elderly patients. She handed him his tea in a white china mug and made sure he was happy holding it, before walking across and handing a white mug of coffee to Richard, "There you are, Mr Moriarty, I think your Dad did very well, sure it won't be long before we get the results and all will be fine!"

She turned and opened the door, "Oh, come in," she said, Richard looked up and saw the tall, ruffle-haired detective that he recognised from Kitty's photographs. Chantal pulled the door shut behind her. Sherlock Holmes leaned nonchalantly back upon the door.

"Well, this is interesting," he began.

Rory looked at Holmes, Richard realised there was recognition in his father's eyes.

"It's Mr Altamont, Mr Ravenhurst's colleague," Rory said.

"Sorry to disappoint you again, Mr Moriarty, I've had to be very untruthful about my identity to you. Partly because of Jim, and partly because of this man here, your younger son, RICHARD MORIARTY!" Sherlock's voice rose to an exclamation.

Richard jumped to his feet and ran across to his father, "He's talking nonsense, Da, I'm Jim, I'm your lad, you know me!"

Rory looked at Richard. His expression of puzzlement turned to one of disgust. "No, I don't know you, son. You're Richard. Jim had little scars all over his face from what you did to him when he was two. Your face is clear. They told me what you did. You knew Jim was going to take his life and you didn't stop him. Oh no, you're your mother's child! I told you already, you are _not_ a Moriarty!"

"But Da, it's all nonsense, it _is_ me, I'm your son!" Richard pleaded, crouching before his father.

"Mr Moriarty Senior, my name is Sherlock Holmes. Your son James Moriarty was an extremely dangerous, deluded individual at his end. I believe you tried your best bringing him up on your own, but you couldn't stop the rot. I have wondered, now I know everything, did Richard's attack on him at so young an age set off a chain reaction? That's the thing about the mind, it is the last undiscovered country, something we know so little about," Sherlock said, not moving his position, as Richard stared at him.

"I'll tell you what happened that day, _he_ tried to strangle me! Before I ever took up the scissors! I _am_ your son, I'm Richard, but _I_ was the one who was attacked not the other way around! None of you saw! Mother was convinced that I wasn't 'well', that's why she wanted to take me away, but it wasn't _me_, I wasn't the sick one. Holmes is trying to save your feelings, Da, Jim was a crook! He was a murderer, a master criminal who killed for the heck of it! That's where he got all his wealth. That house, that was my _mother's_ house! She left it to _me_, but Jim stole it! Da, _I_ am all here, I'm not mad, Jim was, he thought this man here was his mortal enemy. And now Holmes thinks I'm a lunatic, thinks I killed that poor girl Kitty Riley, that I tried to blow up the doctor's car, I'm sane, Da, I am, I don't have Mother's curse!" Richard babbled.

"I'm afraid Richard is speaking the truth about his brother being a criminal. But he _is_ ill. Dr Morton, can you interject here?" Sherlock looked at Michael, who had stood stock still, the whole time, flexing his fingers over the steel of the scalpel.

"This man called himself Richard Brook. He has been blackmailing me and my staff for the last two weeks. He is wanted for the murder of Kitty Riley, as the detective in charge of the case, Greg Lestrade told me that his DNA was a direct match for that found on the dead girl's body. They knew it couldn't have been James Moriarty, because he was already dead a week by then," Michael explained, the words coming out cold and unfeeling.

"No!" Richard shrieked. He jumped to his feet and dashed towards the open partition. Michael chased him, Sherlock opened the door and ran down the other side of the corridor. Just as Richard burst through the doorway, Michael stabbed the scalpel deep into his shoulder. Richard stumbled, but ripped the blade out and cast it aside, as both Sherlock and Michael dashed after him. Chantal, seeing them take rapid flight, rushed into the treatment room where Rory Moriarty was sitting in shock.

Richard smashed his good shoulder against the door at the end of the corridor, and ran down the stairs. "There's nowhere to go, Moriarty, you better stop now!" Sherlock yelled.

Richard knew otherwise. He'd seen the plans of the building and was well aware of the deep level shelter and the tunnel. He only hoped that it was open. Being three steps ahead of his pursuers, Richard managed to reach the foot of the stairwell before them. He ran towards the door marked 'fire exit', knowing the tunnel was accessed from behind it.

"He knows! Lestrade better be waiting!" Michael gasped, feeling his asthmatic lungs searing in agony as they hit the last step.

Pushing hard on the bar lock across the fire exit, Richard burst through, finding to his relief the steel door which blocked the way was wide open. But it meant there were others waiting for him. He'd take that risk, and ran, pulling his jacket off, to ease the pressure on his aching shoulder.

Sherlock hared ahead of Michael, who, despite his pain, kept on running. The surge of adrenaline he'd felt digging the scalpel blade into Richard's shoulder had been enough to help him push on.

Scarlet Ribbon, who had been in Michael's office, had heard the scuffle of feet and radioed John Tasker. The other mercenaries headed for Gloucester Road Tube Station, while Tasker himself ran into the clinic and raced downstairs, followed by Scarlet, who had ditched her high heels for a pair of white plastic clogs, and left her expensive coat on the chair in the office.

She soon caught up on Michael, who was now leaning against the stone wall in the tunnel, about five hundred yards from the entrance. He was wheezing profusely. "They're… heading… for the shelter…" he gasped.

"And they will get him, you're going nowhere!" Scarlet warned him, as Tasker ran past. "Inhaler?" she asked.

Michael pointed to his pocket, and Scarlet reached inside his scrub tunic and found the Ventolin. She gave it to him, and he gulped down one dose after another. "Gotta see this through, come on," he said.

"Silly man! On your own head be it then, but we're not running!" Scarlet said, and took his arm.

Richard saw the broad plaza of the deep level shelter widen out before him. It was brightly lit with fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. There stood Jani Frojager and Greg Lestrade, Jani toting a Kalashnikov. Richard stopped and laughed.

Sherlock came charging into view and dived at Richard in a rugby tackle. They began to struggle. Tasker appeared, and a few minutes later, Scarlet and Michael. "We stopping them?" Tasker asked.

"No, let them fight it out, unless Moriarty is getting the better of him!" Scarlet ordered.

"You don't fight fair! How can I compete with an AK-47? I never got to meet my brother again, but you, I can see why you were his enemy!" Richard gasped, as they rolled about on the floor, trying to land punches on each other.

"Fair? I don't think you know what sportsmanship is! Killing a young woman, half your size, planting a bomb, breaking into someone's house, all sneaky, cowardly methods!" Sherlock hissed at him, securing his right hand around Richard's throat.

"Sneaky, huh?" Richard rasped as the pressure on his neck sent stars flooding his vision, "Try this for size!" With a deft movement, Richard twisted Sherlock's wrist away from his throat and produced a full syringe, he stabbed it at his rival, as Sherlock put up his hand defensively. The needle hit his palm, the drug sliding out of its container, seeping into the detective's bloodstream.

"Stop them!" Michael gasped, guessing that somehow Richard had found the syringe full of Zemuron, the one he'd reserved for the Irishman.

Sherlock felt his senses dull, his arms suddenly became so heavy he couldn't move them, just as had happened the first time he had been in Irene's house and she'd escaped him. Richard shoved the plunger right down and pushed Sherlock off him. He scrambled to his feet and looked at his pursuers, "You better let me go, or watch him die!" he hissed.

"Like you've much choice," John Tasker said, pointing his automatic rifle in Richard's direction.

"Nah, you won't do it, you won't. This man here means more to you all than I do, your precious detective!" Richard snapped.

Michael dashed forward and pulled the syringe out of Sherlock's hand. "It's Zemuron, the muscle-relaxant we use in operations. The amount he's given him, Sherlock won't be able to breathe, I've got to get him back to the clinic, or else get the others down here!"

"See? He's going to die, and you're going to let me walk out of here!" Richard began to smile insanely.

John kept his gaze fixed on him, "Scarlet, what do you want me to do?"

Michael leaned over Sherlock who was muttering incoherently, "Shoot him, shoot him now, Mycroft said… carte blanche!"

"The man is a criminal. Lestrade, you're the policeman, what say you?" Scarlet asked.

Before Greg could answer, everyone's attention was diverted to the sound of an electronic motor coming down the tunnel. Richard peered across and saw Rory approaching in his wheelchair, followed by Laurence and Chantal. "Da!" he yelled, and dashed past them all. When he reached his father, he flung his arms around him.

"Please Da, please protect me!" he wailed in the tone of a frightened child.

Rory stopped the chair and put his right arm around Richard's back. "Now, back off, all of you, till I talk to my son!" his voice was powerful, forcing the rest to run into the wider space of the shelter. Michael ordered Lestrade to go up to the Tube station level and get the guard, informing him that the station supervisor would have access to oxygen equipment for emergencies. Lestrade fled, Jani followed, zipping his rifle into his jacket.

**Chapter 15**

"Da, it wasn't me, honestly, it was Jim, we were just playing together, and he started saying 'my Da, my Da!' I can remember it, even for how young I was, _he tried to strangle me to death_, that's why I stabbed him!" Richard was weeping now.

"Son, pull yoursel' together, look at me, look at your Da!" Rory ordered.

Richard sniffed and gulped back his tears, he stood up a little, and looked at his father. "I'm telling the truth. When I found he was a criminal, just about to destroy himself, I thought, ah-ha, now I can be the _only _son and heir!"

"You're saying it was Jim all along, yes?"

Richard nodded, wiping away his tears.

"When your mother died, where were you?"

"At the top of the stairs."

"Did you push her or did she fall?"

"I… can't remember. She kept screaming at me, that I wasn't her child, that I must be a changeling, that I'd made her ill again! I just huddled up on the landing, held my hands to my ears until I couldn't stand it any longer. I wanted it to stop!" Richard felt the images swirling in his head. Bridget was screaming, yelling all sorts of curses. He was yelling the Lord's Prayer at her. He saw his mother's legs, barring his way, stretched out his hands, and then butted her shins with his head. A long piercing scream was immediately cut short as she hit her head on the spindles of the bannister, and tumbled backwards to the foot of the stair.

"You took her life, Richard, that wasn't for you to decide!" Rory said in his same forceful tone.

"No, I just wanted her to stop screaming, my head hurt, it was exploding inside, I just wanted her to _stop_!"

"Like you wanted your brother to stop, eh?" his tone was suddenly quieter.

"Yes, Da, it was just to stop him, I didn't kill, I didn't!" he bleated.

"Oh son, what a mess, you committed a mortal sin, you took your mother's life!" Rory whispered. "Come here, come here, son," he added, his voice low. Richard bent over his father again, and Rory again put his right arm around Richard's shoulders. "Did Jim attack you, Richard? This is your Da talking, you cannot keep lying to me," the words were so quiet Richard could hardly catch them. He would tell the truth, then his father would forgive him.

"No…I wanted him out of the way so I could be the only son," Richard replied softly.

"May the Queen of Heaven forgive my sin," Rory said.

Richard felt a sharp thump in his chest, then a burning sensation spread across his veins. He looked up. His father's face was impassive. Stepping back, he saw it. The scalpel. It stuck out of his heart, and every breath began to pump more blood out across his shirt. His eyes widened in shock. "You…you did this?"

Scarlet had been closest, watching as Richard now staggered backwards, lost his balance and crashed to the ground. Her eyes widened as she saw the streaked bloodstain across the old man's clothes. He was utterly silent. She couldn't help but run forward, Chantal and Laurence following her. Looking down at Richard, she saw the scalpel sticking out of him like a steel dart. He was laughing hysterically. The old man had stabbed his younger son, just as the two-year old Richard had tried to stab his brother, for no cause other than jealousy.

"I'm done, I'm done! Justice done for me Da!" he giggled.

"Lie still, you idiot! Do you seriously want to bleed to death?" Scarlet yelled at him.

"We come into the world with nothing… and thus we will leave with nothing. The Moriartys have failed!" Richard rambled. Before Laurence could help, Richard reached slowly up with his left hand, the same dominant hand as his father and brother, and pulled the scalpel out of his wound. Blood streaked out of him, and he coughed and spluttered, the blood spewing from his lungs out of his mouth too.

"Oh hell!" Laurence yelled, shoving his hands down on the wound to staunch the bleed. "Chantal, run back to the clinic, get anything! Run!" he yelled.

Scarlet was fascinated as the blood pumped through Laurence's fingers, every failing breath of Richard Moriarty saw his life seep out onto the doctor's hands. She stood up, noticing the blood stains on her grey blouse. She turned to Rory Moriarty, "A life for a life, that is what my mother would say, but Richard already took two lives, I'm sorry, Mr Moriarty, I don't think you can atone for him, even now," she said quietly, guessing the Irishman's reasoning was coloured by his beliefs.

Michael was too busy trying to keep Sherlock breathing, but he knew the drug was taking hold. Lestrade returned with Jani and two members of the Underground staff from Gloucester Road Station above them. One carried an oxygen bottle, the other the mask and connecting tubes. "Excellent, bring it here, now!" Michael ordered.

"Come on, don't you dare give up!" Laurence was yelling at Richard, who coughed again, and then sank back onto the concrete surface of the tunnel. The blood flow eased and the light went out of Richard's eyes. "Aw no, no, this really isn't the place to die, Richard, come on!" But Laurence knew his plea was futile. He lifted his hands away, wiping them on his scrub tunic which he'd donned before running downstairs from the clinic.

Rory Moriarty uttered not a word. Scarlet knew he was doubly-heartbroken having heard the worst about his two sons. Chantal returned, but saw Scarlet shake her head. She gasped, seeing the blood everywhere, and the awful expression on Rory's face, of a man defeated. She put her hand on Rory's shoulder, "Mr Moriarty, would you like to go?" The Irishman nodded but did not speak. She helped him turn the wheelchair around and they disappeared back along the tunnel.

"Haven't seen stuff like this since my days at the Royal Free in casualty. Not good, not good," Laurence muttered as he looked down at the face of the man who'd terrified him so much, yet now was helpless. He got to his feet. "Better leave him, Lestrade's boys will want to see the body in situ," he said. "Do you know something?" Laurence continued, turning to Scarlet.

"No, what are you about to say?" she asked.

"When they do the post-mortem, if they open up his brain, they'll not find a single physical symptom of his mental illness. The brain activity's gone, there's no evidence after death. The mad and the sane, all exactly alike," Laurence commented. "I need some air, I'm going back up top."

Scarlet stared down at Richard. _So, in the end you kept it in the family. Maybe it's just as well_, she thought. She walked away and found that Michael had managed to revive Sherlock and he was sitting up. "Richard's dead," she said.

"What?" Sherlock gasped.

"His father stabbed him."

Lestrade enlisted the help of the British Transport Police to retrieve Moriarty's body, and sent it off to the Met mortuary at Broadway. Sherlock simply sent a text to his brother, _spider squashed, but another hand than mine._ Later that afternoon, they were all upstairs in the clinic staffroom. Molly and Laurence were sitting with Sherlock, trying to ease his gloom which had descended since seeing Richard's dead body. Maurice, after trying to clean the blood off Rory's coat with Julie's help, went back to the nursing home with the old man.

"What d'you think, Charles? Any chance of a conviction?" Lestrade said as they walked out to the front door of the clinic.

"In view of his age and disability, not very likely. Given the whole family history, I would venture a plea of senility, even though Mr Moriarty seems perfectly rational. It depends really on the medical reports. Mind you, is any court ever going to hear about this case?" Charles-Henry replied.

"Mm, it wraps up the Riley case, the hit-and-run, and I've got Moran for the Burrell one, no, I think it'll be 'suspect killed while resisting arrest'. My uh…acquaintance Mycroft will see to it. Right now I'm going home to bed. Hope I wake up on a better day when there's one less villain in the world," Lestrade said.

Chantal was despondent, "That poor old man, he must have been so hurt to think his sons hated each other," she said.

Scarlet drank tea from a white mug and looked at the blonde nurse. She wasn't thinking much, other than relief that she had one less threat to deal with. "Maybe he had to do it, for his own sanity. Who knows?" she said.

"Oh, I'll have to go and visit him, poor thing, he'll have nobody," Chantal added.

"That would be a very nice thing to do, Chantal," Michael said. He was leaning his elbows on his desk, supporting his chin in his hands. His attention was on Scarlet, not his nurse.

Scarlet could feel his gaze. She turned and looked into his blue eyes. _Dr Wanna Do_, she mouthed. _You too_, he mouthed back. So, it was game on, eh? Well, his choice, I did warn him, she thought.

Sherlock Holmes was crouched on the sofa, his knees pulled up to his chin. He had seen Richard's face as the Transport Police had loaded the body into a black bag and lifted it onto a trolley. He had stopped them for a moment, just before the bag was zipped shut. This was the same face he'd seen on the roof before he jumped, but looking very closely he could see Richard's skin was flawless, not like Jim's face which had tiny pitted marks across it. He now knew these had been the shadows of those scars inflicted all those years before. He felt pity now, that two great minds had been destroyed. Yet it had to be. _The great game is over, Moriarty, there will be no enemy quite like you._

"Sherlock, are you sure you're alright?" Molly asked.

"Just musing. You'll be thankful Dr Craven will probably take Richard's post-mortem," he said, not looking at her.

"Yes, it would just be too creepy. Thank goodness it's all over!" she sighed.

Laurence turned to Sherlock, "I think it would be best if we took you wherever you need to be," he could sense that the last place the detective wanted to be was with people right now.

"I'd be obliged, thanks, but I parked the taxi at the top of the Mews," he said.

"Come on then, I'll walk you," Laurence told him, jumping to his feet.

Sherlock stood up, "Thanks, Laurence." He turned to Molly, "I'm going away, for quite a long time. Mycroft has work for me, he says. Just promise me you will not repeat a word of my existence to John. I'll be back when I can, and not before. Only… don't let him do anything silly."

"Of course, I'll keep an eye on him," Molly readily agreed. "And Sherlock, we're even, ok? Forgive and forget," she added, giving him a peck on the cheek.

He gave her the briefest of smiles and left.

When they'd reached the end of the road, Sherlock pulled the leather cap out of his coat pocket and pulled it down onto his head. "Thanks for … well, _knowing_. Take care of Molly, will you? I _did_ care for her, but I don't think she'll ever really believe it," he sighed.

"Look man, go and cut yourself some slack. I thought I was uptight till I met you. Switch the brain off sometime and just… be, you'll end up on the pathology slab for real if you don't." Laurence advised.

Sherlock looked at him, the pale blue eyes dancing back and forth, the adrenaline of the past few hours still buzzing inside him. "I will see what happens. You can't exactly plan peace, can you?" Laurence shook his head and folded his arms. Sherlock got into the cab and performed a quick three-point turn before heading out of the Mews.

At the end of the following week, Scarlet returned to the clinic for the operation on her scar. She and Michael had agreed not to see each other in the intervening time, mainly to give Michael a chance to decide whether he was still mad enough to want a relationship with her. The snow had gone and the spring air was palpable. She walked into the treatment room wearing a cream Angora wool jacket with a black leather belt and large black buttons, this contrasted neatly with a pair of leather trousers and ankle boots.

"Good morning, Dr Morton, you ready to make me perfect again?" Scarlet trilled.

Michael turned and smirked at her. "Ready and willing, my dear. Chantal and Maurice will be assisting me."

Very soon, Scarlet was lying on the bed, wearing a hospital tunic over her trousers. She gave Michael a wry look as he inserted the cannula into her vein. _Uh-huh, revenge is a dish best tasted cold, eh, Michael?_ She thought. It was Maurice however who administered the anaesthetic. Scarlet felt black stars flash before her vision until she knew no more.

On waking up after what seemed like mere minutes, Scarlet's neck felt very stiff. Michael looked over her, "Wakey, wakey, sunshine," he grinned flirtatiously.

"Uh, hello, sweetheart, you better have done a good job," she said woozily.

"You wouldn't pay me if I didn't!" Michael replied.

After checking that the invisible stitches around the skin graft were all in place, and the area was completely clean, Michael left Chantal to bandage the area. The others had gone. "It's going to be absolutely perfect when that heals, Miss Summers, Michael's done a fine job as always."

"I'm sure he has," she replied.

"Miss Summers, oh, I can't help it, I think Dr Morton's got a little fancy for you, he's never done mentioning your name. It's usually lady patients that get crushes on the doctors, but I've never seen him act so dizzy!" Chantal trilled.

"Oh ho, has he indeed? Don't you like him for yourself?" Scarlet suddenly realised the words were out before she'd had time to self-censor, must be the anaesthetic, it's worse than champagne!

"Oh, no, Dr Morton's my boss, and he's a lot older than me, he's nice and everything, but no, not for me. You see, I've got a little secret admirer, well, not so secret, _I_ know who he is, but nobody here does! It's the baker at the cake shop around the corner. He's really sweet, runs his own business. Problem is, I'm having to go to the gym more often, scoffing all his cakes are so _bad_ for my figure!" Chantal confided.

Scarlet smiled at the young nurse, _of course! She's far too young and pretty to want a man nearly thirty years older than her! Duh, I must be daft_. "Well, get your baker boy to eat them too, or go out for a run rather than sitting eating! We girls have got to take care of ourselves! You go, girl, don't let him get the better of you!"

Chantal giggled in her childlike fashion, "Oh that's a good idea! I'll do that, I'll say 'Thomas, we're going jogging, catch me if you can!'"

"Yes, that's the way, and the next time you see me, it's Jenny, ok, not Miss Summers, that's far too formal!" Scarlet told her, beginning to like the little nurse.

"Will do, now, that's you all patched up, I'll take you to our new little patient lounge and you can have a cuppa before you go home," Chantal explained.

Scarlet was impressed by the homely little lounge, clearly influenced by the female staff, as she sat and drank a mug of hot tea. There was a plate full of Snowball cakes on the table, but she didn't feel like eating. Just then, the door opened, Michael came in, medical scrubs replaced by his favourite black suit and the purple shirt that Scarlet had bought him. He came and sat beside her, leaned his arm on the back of the new orange sofa which matched the peachy décor in the room, and beamed at her.

"A little birdie has been telling tales about you, Dr Wanna Do," Scarlet said, feeling her cheeks flush with warmth.

"Uh huh, the same birdie who is spending all her break times at the bakery? I think we have a case of birds of a feather flocking together, Miss Scarlet Ribbon," Michael said quietly.

"So, you wanna play?" Scarlet asked, putting the mug down on the table and turning her full attention to him.

"I've decided that I don't want to end my life regretting the fact that I never seized the day when I should have. Do what you like to me, sweetheart, I'm hooked, as I told you so long ago now," he said, his voice taking on an attractive husky quality to it.

Scarlet reached her right hand up to his cheek, "I'd only do _nice_ things to you, Michael… nicely _wicked_ things!" she cooed. He turned his face and kissed her fingers.

"So long as you keep that bloomin' camera phone a mile away, my dark angel!" he told her.

"Agreed. Now, if you want, you can come with me to the Savoy for a late lunch," Scarlet invited.

"Good thing I took the afternoon off then," he replied. "Bet you haven't seen my new car yet. And this time I paid for it; due to our mystery investor, I don't need to worry about the clinic's finances anymore."

"Maybe your dark angel is stepping into the light for a bit," Scarlet told him. She bent her head forward and kissed his mouth.

Michael sighed and couldn't help but respond. "Mm, come on, better not have dessert before the main course!" he said, pulling away. He leapt to his feet and offered his hand. She took it and they left the room hand in hand. Michael waved to Agnes as he passed the desk; the celebrity-obsessed receptionist gave him double-thumbs-up. He just laughed.

Outside in the car park was a brand new Aston Martin Rapide-S in bright red. On the grille was the registration plate, _MM57_. "Couldn't help it, had to go the whole hog," Michael grinned stupidly.

"Mm-hm, I can see why. You didn't know I was a petrolhead too, did you?" Scarlet said, squeezing his hand.

"Oh well, in that case, we might tootle over to Brooklands after, and if you're very, very good, I might let you take her for a spin," Michael offered.

"Mm, sounds perfect," she said, kissing his cheek again.

Moments later, Agnes heard the roar of the V12 engine, and saw the flash of red as the Aston zipped out of the Mews. She grinned. She looked back at her iPad screen to Facebook, it was the only way she could keep up with what was going on without Michael or Laurence bending her ear about wasting time on clinic property. The backdated pay had allowed her to finally get this handy little gadget which far surpassed her smart-phone. "Uh-huh, my girl, need to get yourself a man, they're all hooking up!" she said, scrolling down the screen, past Laurence's profile, which now displayed the status '_Laurence is in a relationship_'. Chantal's had a big picture of an ice-cream cake and the logo for the Blackbird Bakery underneath it. Michael was not on Facebook, she knew that, but there was no mistaking the doctor and the stable owner were now an item. "Now, I wonder if Chas Ravenhurst might like to go dancing," she whispered to herself, as she opened a new window on the iPad and began to type an email.

Sherlock Holmes felt invigorated as the sea spray filled the air and the Northlink ferry powered through the winter waves towards Lerwick in Shetland. His hair was now shorter and dyed blonde, he was putting on a little weight, and his new passport proclaimed him to be Sven Sigerson, marine biologist for a large private company in Tromsø. The last he'd seen of Lestrade was when his police associate had actually driven him to Heathrow to get a plane to Aberdeen, where the ferry port was.

"When am I likely to see you in my division again?" he asked.

"That I can't answer, but I will be back, eventually," Sherlock replied.

"Ok, well, looks like you managed to tie up most of your loose ends. I see Molly has a new man. She's transformed!" Greg commented.

"Mm, someone she knew from medical school."

"What about Irene Adler? You and her… er, been in touch?" Greg ventured.

Sherlock shook his head, "As far as women are concerned, I'm out of options. I don't mind, they are too much of a distraction, too many conflicting signals! What's happened to Rory Moriarty?"

"Ah, sorry, didn't get around to telling you, he died. Had a heart attack about three days after… well, Richard. Probably the shock. Sad to think he wasn't a bad guy, yet the lads were… what they were. His niece is coming over from New Zealand to take the funeral. So it's come full circle," Greg sighed.

Sherlock made no further comment. He got out of the car, and Greg joined him, to open the boot of the Vectra. "Hey, get some rest while you're incommunicado, eh? Then come back and help me keep the villains and nutters off London's streets!" Greg said, holding out his hand.

"You're not doing a bad job on your own, these days, Lestrade, you'll cope without me for a bit," Sherlock told him, shaking Greg's hand.

"Thanks, nice to know that under all that arrogance, you're not a bad guy really. You're the best detective I've ever met, and I'm not just sooking up, you are. Now, buzz off before I start doing something unmanly like crying!" Greg told him.

The sight of the Knab, the rocky promontory which stretched out from Lerwick's upper streets into the mouth of the bay, told Sherlock he was almost at his first destination. The brightly painted sheds and industrial buildings at the harbour contrasted with the stone and concrete-clad houses along the cliffs, it seemed to be a town in a time warp. But, as he had long realised, it was fatal to make a judgement without evidence. For now, the one case that his blogger, John Watson might have labelled _The Sherlock Holmes Case,_ was closed.

THE END

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